


Acceptable Risk

by Mysecretfanmoments



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Future Fic, Getting Together, Living Together, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, University Setting, extremely tropey and self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2018-12-27 18:57:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12087300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysecretfanmoments/pseuds/Mysecretfanmoments
Summary: Tobio braced himself and stood, gathering Hinata’s warm body close. Hinata’s weight settled against him, strengthening the impression he always had at these times: that he was collecting a part of himself, severed by some weird circumstance. In these moments he couldn’t help feeling that Hinata belonged to him, and as long as he didn’t talk about the impression out loud it harmed no one. As it was Hinata mumbled a little, curling into him the way he’d anticipated.Without a word he carried Hinata to Hinata’s cluttered bedroom and laid him in bed, wrestling blankets out from under him to cover him with. Hinata woke, then, a little, but only to blink at him sleepily and mumble something that sounded like thanks. He turned away, and Tobio returned to his own bedroom, turning off all the lights on the way. That restlessness from earlier threatened to rise up and strangle him.Living with Hinata was nice—but only most of the time. Only when he didn’t feel like this.- - -(Kageyama and Hinata navigate living together at university while not dating. It's hard—the not-dating part, that is.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!! So this started as a collab with a wonderful person in late 2015 but we both lost steam along the way. When I rewatched/read haikyuu and my second burn happened—and I predictably fell right back into kagehina—I really wanted to finish it. If me writing kghn again is a happy thing for you: THANK YOU FOR WELCOMING ME BACK. I hope you like this thing I had to upload because if I didn't start uploading soon it would become Frankenstein's monster in an even bigger way. The main story is written & mostly edited, the bonus (nsfw) chapters are mostly written, so they should follow soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If nsfw is not your bag: ctrl+f to "tobio sighed shakily" when you want to skip.

Tobio peered over the rim of his teacup, restless and ready. What he was ready for he wasn’t sure, but he forced himself to sit still in the armchair, foot propped up on the coffee table, taking deep breaths of tea-scented air. Light was streaming in the window of the apartment he shared with Hinata, and the living room was tidy for once, his weights neatly put away.

He forced himself to look, to calm. His gaze slid over the open sliding doors on adjoining walls, showing sections of entryway and kitchen, the blank-screened, thirdhand TV inherited from Hinata’s cousin, the couch where they watched movies or matches when they could, where Hinata fell asleep at least once a week; the single-paned windows showing a supermarket parking lot and part of a street.

It was still weird, living like this. The tea, for instance: tea was something his mother forced on him, talking about antioxidants and Japanese people who lived to be a hundred years old. It tasted like grass to him, and he’d looked forward to scrapping the habit once he lived alone—but here he was, in an apartment his mother had visited exactly once, drinking tea of his own volition like he liked it. Maybe he _did_ like it. It reminded him this was home, even if it burned his tongue and tasted like grass.

He sipped, breathed, sipped, breathed. Restlessness ticked inside him, echoing the clock on the wall. The coach had told him to stay away from practice today, concerned for the ankle he’d only kind of sprained, and Hinata was at practice as usual.

It rankled: him at home, Hinata at practice. He hoped today’s practice wouldn’t go long.

Minutes crawled by as he finished the tea and laid out homework that swam before his eyes, interrupted by flashes of what he could be doing now if it wasn’t for his ankle. Would the team do practice matches against itself with only one competent setter there? Would it be worthwhile to even have practice at all?

No, that was a stupid thought. Of course practice was worthwhile. It was just that—

“I’m home!”

Tobio jumped, the propped foot coming down, steadying. “Welcome home,” he said. He stoically ignored the way his heart kicked up, maintaining a level tone. “How was practice?”

Hinata pulled off his shoes, dropping his bag and walking through the sliding doors to collapse on the couch perpendicular to Tobio’s chair. He lay on his back looking up at the ceiling, a well-muscled arm dangling  “ _Boring_ ,” he said. “Satou barely ever tosses to me outside of drills.”

“He thinks of you as my spiker,” Tobio said. “He thinks you’re going to complain about his tosses because they’re not mine.”

Hinata twisted, meeting Tobio’s gaze upside-down. His head was off the couch, extending his neck. It gleamed with exercise sweat that made Tobio swallow part in envy part in… not-envy. Orange hair hung down, revealing a perfectly smooth forehead Tobio rarely got to see.

_Cute._

“Well, they are less good, but I wouldn’t tell him that.”

The statement made Tobio smile in a way that would have normally had Hinata grinning back, or at least telling him to look less sinister when he smiled, but Hinata was distracted, gaze suddenly catching on Tobio’s ankle. His eyes narrowed.

“You should have your foot up. Here—”

He rolled off the couch and sprang up, the exhaustion and disappointment of a moment ago forgotten. In a fit of unnecessary caretaking, he forced Tobio’s foot up and fetched ice to put on the ankle, then stood over the scene like he wanted to call in a doctor or two for good measure.

“You need to be better by tomorrow,” he said, catching Tobio’s exasperated stare. “It’s not the same without you. What d’you want for dinner?”

So he hadn’t eaten at the dining hall after practice; he’d come straight back. Tobio tried to force down the smug feeling that bubbled up.

“Pork curry,” he said. If Hinata was going to baby him, he’d take advantage. “And don’t make it so watery this time.”

Hinata saluted. “I won’t!”

Tobio’s brows rose. The comment about watery curry would have had Hinata sniping back any other day, and here he was saluting and running to follow orders _._ Tobio decided not to point this out; it seemed Hinata really was missing his tosses.

Flattering to think that could still be true, after years and years.

He leaned back in his chair, watching Hinata move around the small kitchen, occasionally obscured by walls. This wasn’t what he’d expected at all when they were still in high school. He could never have imagined it, even as he and Hinata moved from being just rivals to being friends. They’d lived together for over half a year now, and it was… nice. Most of the time. He hadn’t been prepared for life with Hinata to be _nice_.

Hinata climbed up to kneel on the counter and reached past the open door of a cupboard. Tobio was caught between amusement and an urgent need to scold, and then Hinata reached higher and his T-shirt rode up, baring smooth skin over the jut of his hip as he kneeled, shorts riding low. It was just skin, skin Tobio saw all the time, but it hit him like bricks. Awareness of Hinata’s body reached through the open sliding doors of the kitchen to choke him, overwhelm him, make his body hot and cold with longing. In a flash the calm of the moment was gone, and Tobio tore his eyes away.

 _Not for you_ , he reminded himself, ignoring the heat in his palms, the sudden pressure in his throat. His hands used to heat up like that when he saw gymnasiums, nets, volleyball carts. It meant he wanted to send tosses—but he’d had years to realise the heat in his palms when he looked at Hinata’s exposed skin was not the same thing.

His restlessness from earlier returned tenfold. That brief flash of Hinata’s skin begged Tobio to notice all the physical dimensions he so carefully looked past when they were off the court. Hinata had grown since they started playing together, though most of it hadn’t been vertical. His body had become stronger, compact but lethal. For Tobio the lethal aspect of Hinata’s body was more in how it made him feel to look at.

It started with his hair. Tobio had lived through different hairstyles: the orange cloud, the longer orange cloud, the ponytail, the longer ponytail, the buzzcut—there had been a real sense of loss there—and then there was the current style, which had lasted for over a year now: shorter on the sides, longer on top. There was still enough to grab onto, but Tobio rarely did anymore. Hinata challenged him, but not so much that he had to grab him.

No, that wasn’t quite true: not to a degree where Tobio could overwhelm the voice inside telling him not to grab Hinata, even when Hinata poked every sore spot he had. If he grabbed, he might… do something. Something he shouldn’t. _That_ impulse had to do with the rest of Hinata. Hinata’s face—bolder lines now, no longer quite so impish—was only part of the problem. The rest was… skin. Hard muscle. The tantalising build, so different from his own, seemingly designed to frustrate him even as he appreciated every play the blooming strength in Hinata’s body allowed.

The whole thing was like loving the sun, and Tobio accepted it. It wasn’t enjoyable, but you didn’t get to pick what you longed for. In his case, he couldn’t have what he wanted—so he settled in for the long game. No matter how much he wanted to hold Hinata, touch him, it wasn’t worth everything else. He’d made that decision almost as soon as he became aware of his feelings—feelings like a ball dropping on his side of the court, sick realisation followed by acceptance. The point was gone. It had been scored, and that was that. Tobio would simply feel like this, and life would continue—but some days were harder than others, and this day when he hadn’t practiced and gotten his energy out was turning out worse.

His earlier restlessness accompanied him through the meal, through homework, through getting ready for bed. It didn’t help that Hinata liked to sit close, always touching him somehow—whether it was his shoulder to get his attention or his thigh as they sat watching TV. There was no way to avoid Hinata, and it wasn’t like he wanted to. He just wanted to be a little less aware of him—but that was beyond him, even after years of practice.

His mood had blackened by the time he stepped out into their shared space to see if the lights were off after his bath. They weren’t, and the TV was playing to an empty room, wasting more electricity—

No, wait. That lump on the couch was Hinata, totally unconscious, his mouth open. Practice had been boring, maybe, but that hadn’t stopped it from being exhausting.

Tobio switched off the TV. Hinata had a habit of falling asleep on the couch, and when he’d asked about it he said the TV relaxed him more than lying in bed with his eyes closed did. Hinata didn’t react to the noise cutting off, though, his breathing unchanged. He never did.

Tobio sighed, moving to kneel next to the couch. He knew from experience that waking Hinata from his couch naps produced mixed results, sometimes leaving Hinata wired for hours. Putting Hinata to bed himself was much more effective—and also a whole lot harder on his resolve to stop storing up useless being-close-to-Hinata moments.

“Okay,” he said, which didn’t even make Hinata twitch. He swallowed. Like this, on these nights when Hinata fell asleep on their couch, it felt like a different world somehow. Hinata’s face was open and honest in sleep, a little silly, his hair a mess. Tobio knew the way Hinata would curl into him when lifted, reflexively moving towards his body heat, making him imagine unwanted things. These nights felt like maybe they were together in a way that went beyond their friendship or their partnership—but of course they weren’t, because they’d never agreed to be together. Living together and being together were two wholly different things; Tobio knew that.

And yet, as he prepared to lift Hinata, he pressed his lips against Hinata’s forehead in the briefest of kisses—barely a brushing of lips. It was the only sign of affection he ever gave, meaningless and therefore innocent, because Hinata would never know and he would never go beyond it. It was a silent _I’m here_ that begged not to be noticed.

Tobio braced himself and stood, gathering Hinata’s warm body close. Hinata’s weight settled against him, strengthening the impression he always had at these times: that he was collecting a part of himself, severed by some weird circumstance. In these moments he couldn’t help feeling that Hinata belonged to him, and as long as he didn’t talk about the impression out loud it harmed no one. As it was Hinata mumbled a little, curling into him the way he’d anticipated.

Without a word he carried Hinata to Hinata’s cluttered bedroom and laid him in bed, wrestling blankets out from under him to cover him with. Hinata woke, then, a little, but only to blink at him sleepily and mumble something that sounded like _thanks_. He turned away, and Tobio returned to his own bedroom, turning off all the lights on the way. That restlessness from earlier threatened to rise up and strangle him.

Living with Hinata was nice—but only most of the time. Only when he didn’t feel like this.

 

* * *

 

For a long time Tobio had lived in happy ignorance. Maybe everything had been there from the start, and maybe he’d always felt like this, deep down, from that first uneven match—but even if the feelings had been there all along, he hadn’t noticed them until his third year of high school. Before that terrible August he never even considered the feelings Hinata inspired might not all be volleyball-related. He’d needed to be kicked into examining himself: his feelings, his wants, his wishes. He _had_ been kicked.

In their third year, Hinata had dated someone.

She was a friend of Yachi’s, a girl Hinata had charmed without trying to. She was cute, and smart like Yachi, and Hinata went totally red when she confessed. It didn’t look like he even considered saying no, though Tobio was out of earshot—hadn’t even known it was a confession until afterwards. Having a flushed Hinata tell him what just happened out in the courtyard felt like a rock dropping in his stomach, and he felt _angry_ —like Hinata dating someone was a personal betrayal, an insult.

“Don’t goof off,” was all he said, and Hinata hit him.

“Like I would!”

And Hinata hadn’t goofed off. He’d been just as dedicated to the team, just as focused during practice, even if he wasn’t available as often outside of it. The anger didn’t go away, and after weeks of it—weeks of begrudgingly realising Hinata was working hard as ever—Tobio knew he wasn’t angry at Hinata or the girl.

He was angry at himself.

In hindsight, it was clear his feelings for Hinata weren’t new. They’d been there beneath the surface for a long time, and he had somehow thought their bond—their perfect teamwork—would allow the feelings to stay there unexamined for—what? Years? The rest of their lives?

What had he imagined happening? That Hinata would always just be there? He didn’t know what walls of denials he’d raised up in his mind; all he knew was that they had been there, and now they were gone.

Despite the lasting effect the relationship had on Tobio, Hinata and the cute girlfriend broke up less than two months after the confession, and Hinata seemed saddened but not heartbroken. He and Tobio were friends now, not just rivals or partners, but if Hinata talked to anyone about his breakup it wasn’t Tobio, and Tobio didn’t ask. He assumed they broke up because Hinata was too busy with volleyball; it seemed the likeliest reason. If anything, the entire episode seemed to have more of an effect on him than it did on Hinata.

It made him unsure of everything, at least for a while.

“We have to live together, of course,” Hinata said one day while they were looking up the university they’d both been invited to, the one Nishinoya had been recruited to last year. They were at Tobio’s house, at the kitchen table. Hinata was scrolling through an info page, not even looking at him as he spoke.

Tobio tried not to choke on the gulp of juice he’d been swallowing. “What?” he wheezed, his air passage only just clear enough to produce sound. It made sense, and if he hadn’t been weird lately he would have thought of it himself, but—

Hinata looked up at him. “Well, we’ll be on the same team, at the same school, and we know each other. Seems stupid not to.”

Tobio coughed his throat clear. “Yeah,” he said. It made sense; he knew it made sense. Would he regret agreeing to this later? Only time would tell. “I guess so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I don’t—I mean—I hadn’t thought about it at all.”

“It’s cheaper to live with someone,” Hinata said. His brows were up, like he thought Tobio was strange for being blindsided by this. He gazed at Tobio for a little longer, then turned back to scrolling down the page, the matter settled.

Tobio willed his racing heart to slow. He’d known even then the convenience of living with Hinata might not outweigh the difficulties. He knew it might be hard to see Hinata every day, morning noon and night, in every mood he had—every state of undress, and sleepiness, and giddy excitement. Worse, Hinata might fall in love again, and bring the girl to stay over, and expect Tobio not to wither inside at the sight of him with someone else. It could easily be the worst decision of his life, agreeing to this. Agreeing to fall in deeper.

He took the risk anyway. With Hinata, he always did.

 

* * *

 

Though in gloomier moments the daily temptation Tobio lived with seemed torturous, the confusion of Hinata asleep in his arms and kneeling on counters and existing by his side didn’t always reign. On the court, everything made sense. All doubts fell away; all strange moments of longing and uncertainty were just mist at dawn, swiftly cleared in the hours following sunrise. His heart settled to the sound of soles squeaking against gymnasium floors, the hard _whap_ of spikes, the grunts of exertion swallowed in the rush to make the next play, the next save.

Shining moments happened all the time on the court, but some burst with the fury of a supernova. The first official match he and Hinata ever played start to finish in university was like that. It ended with a perfect spike from Hinata at the conclusion of a long, exhausting rally.

The end wasn’t the end, though. It never was.

The whistle blew, and then Hinata was running at him, launching himself and wrapping his legs around his waist to stay up. Hinata’s thighs were crushingly strong, clenched tight as Hinata yelled and yelled; their teammates around them were yelling too, smacking Tobio’s back. Tobio was going to be split in two under the pressure of Hinata’s thighs, but what did he care? He bunched the back of Hinata’s shirt in his fists and let out a roar of triumph. Hinata started to laugh, and then his hot, sweaty hands were holding Tobio’s face steady while he rained kisses on Tobio’s head, unceasing, until it seemed like Tobio was surrounded on all sides by a damp, laughing Hinata and a damp, laughing Hinata mouth.

“What the hell, Hinata!” he yelled, but there was no fire in it; it only made Hinata laugh more. “Get off!”

Their teammates laughed, used to Hinata at his most excitable.

“Brace yourself!” came a voice—Nishinoya, never someone to let others celebrate on his behalf—and Tobio did as he was told, knowing well that he was about to—

“ _Hnn!_ ” He rocked, suddenly holding up two guys instead of one. Stadium lights whirled overhead, indistinct, then steadied. The muscles in his core and thighs strained to keep him upright. He shot his arms out for balance, and it only just worked. Now it wasn’t just Hinata wrapped around him; Nishinoya was there too, his hands whipping out to pet their heads once his seat was solid.

“Great job, you two!” Nishinoya said. “Makes me proud!”

Tobio’s heart swelled, and he bore the tousling with grace. It’d be easier to remain standing if Hinata wasn’t rocking slightly under Nishinoya’s praise, chortling like a pleased toddler, but he didn’t scold him.

“They’re going to kill him,” a teammate said. Privately Tobio thought the teammate was right, but it didn’t matter. His heart was full. Later, he would think back to Hinata’s legs wrapped around him and it would be different, it would be difficult—but not just now. Here he was invincible.

“We need to line up,” he said, over Hinata’s blow-by-blow account of every cool thing Nishinoya had done during the match. He tried to shake them off, and after a moment of well-intentioned ribbing Nishinoya slid down obligingly. Tobio shook more to dislodge Hinata—but it didn’t bear fruit.

“Fine, fine!” Hinata said, clamping tighter. “I’m going, I’m going! Don’t shake me so much, my legs are stiff, I’ll fall—”

“Don’t climb people if you can’t get back down!”

“It was spur of the moment!”

Tobio’s insides shook with laughter. Stupid Hinata. Stupid, stupid, stupid Hinata. He bunched a hand in Hinata’s shirt possessively, then loosened it once more.

“Just do it slowly,” he said, to Hinata’s reluctant agreement.

They were at a stalemate for a long moment as Hinata looked down, obviously considering his dismount. Then a gracious Nishinoya grabbed him under the armpits, and finally Hinata’s strong legs unclamped. Hinata thunked down, leaving a chill of cold around Tobio’s middle. He met Hinata’s eyes—Hinata was pretend-glaring at him for not letting him cling like a tick forever—and after a moment he couldn’t help reaching out to tousle Hinata’s hair, glare or no glare.

“Well done,” he said, and watched that flush of pride sweep back over Hinata’s face.

“Well, obviously!” Hinata said, and looked quickly away.

 

* * *

 

 _Legs clamped around his waist, red-hot hands gripping his shoulders, tearing at his shirt, clutching at his face_. Tobio panted, biting back a groan. He could still feel it all. He’d known it was trouble the moment Hinata jumped on him after the match. He’d known that lying in bed at night the memory would shift to something else. Part of him wished he could warn Hinata never to do those things, to tell him he fueled something he wouldn’t want to be part of, but it was impossible.

 _Hinata doesn’t know_. Hinata couldn’t know, because Hinata liked girls, was always looking at them, was always trying to get Tobio to talk about them. They weren’t the same. Tobio never wanted to watch Hinata find out about this—that their partnership meant something different to him, that their friendship fed into a world of longing that could only ever come out in a darkened bedroom when he was alone. He didn’t want Hinata to know a fantasy version of him lived in his head, a version that straddled him in dreams and ran hands over him and called out and told him not to worry, that he liked it, that he wanted it…

Tobio bit his lip, choking on an exhale. Sweat broke out on his skin. Hinata’s thighs had been so tight around him after the match, more crushing than sensual. Hinata wouldn’t ever be sensual, not on purpose; he would be wild, and loud, and terrible at holding back. He would take whatever he wanted. Tobio longed to give it to him—to this fantasy version of him, the only version that wanted him back.

His hand tightened on himself. In his mind Hinata told him to keep going, riding him with relentless purpose, the pace too frenzied to be satisfying. They drove together and apart, breaths frantic, and Tobio pulled Hinata’s face down to his, hand in his hair, foreheads grinding together.

 _Slow down_ , he imagined saying, but neither of them would because neither of them could. His wrist ached with the tension in his hand. His lungs ached too, with held breath.

 _Don’t stop_ , Hinata told him in his fantasy. The request was as frantic as their pace. This Hinata showed no consideration, as demanding as he was in all other avenues of life. His mouth bruised; his teeth scraped. Tobio would smell him everywhere the next morning, would know what they’d done.

 _Kageyama_ , Hinata whispered in his mind. Tobio’s hand spasmed. He held a breath.

_Yes?_

_Again, after this. Let’s do it again, and again, and again_ —

 _Shut up. We will. We will—_ Tobio’s thoughts went hazy. His eyes squeezed shut. He was so close. There was phantom pressure on him. Hinata’s voice could be conjured at will, loud in his ears. He remembered the way Hinata had smelled this afternoon after the match, sweat rising off his hot skin, the scent of it sticking to the back of his throat. He remembered Hinata’s hands on his face and the proprietary way he touched him. He imagined it having a different root cause; he imagined Hinata possessive of him not as a player but as a person, Hinata telling him he was his.

 _You’re mine,_ he imagined Hinata saying, lost as they rocked together towards orgasm, insatiable until he drew everything from Tobio, until Tobio gave up every part of himself willingly. _Say it_.

Tobio wouldn’t put up with it. He’d roll them, push between Hinata’s legs. He wouldn’t say he was his. He wouldn’t, but it would be true. Both of them would know it. Tobio imagined claiming Hinata’s mouth, sticking his tongue in as their bodies moved together, Hinata’s soft noises swallowed up. There would be no smart comments. Hinata’s head would drop back; Tobio’s face would drop to Hinata’s collar, where the scent was thick, and they would both lose the ability to speak. No teasing, not then, though Hinata might try.

 _Hinata_ . Again Tobio conjured up Hinata’s thighs around him. A noise escaped him, unwilling. He turned himself, crushed his face into the pillow. _Don’t say his name_ , he commanded himself, locking down his throat. His fingers clenched tight. _Don’t say it._

When he came, he didn’t say it. He thought it, though, over and over: a mixture of _Hinata_ and _Shouyou_ and cuss words Hinata would scold him for. He didn’t care. He spent, and spent, and spent, and then he was empty.

Languid warmth outweighed guilt, for now. Later the mess in his underwear would dry and he’d look down at himself in embarrassment bordering on shame. _Pathetic._ He tried not to imagine Hinata saying that. In his head, Hinata sometimes took on Tsukishima’s expressions when he found out about this all. In some ways it was better to imagine that than the more realistic confusion Hinata would probably show. The disgust he would try to swallow in an attempt to salvage their friendship.

Tobio sighed shakily. He wasn’t sure why he ever allowed himself to think of Hinata when he relieved these urges, except that it seemed impossible _not_ to think of him; he’d tried many times. Somehow images of Hinata always crept in: flashes of thigh, the way his shorts looked as he stretched, the restless way he shifted during long classes, hips twisting in his seat, the way his eyes would slide to meet Tobio’s in moments of quiet communication, almost sly in the security that he’d understand.

Hinata never wondered if Tobio could keep up. He had no reason to; Tobio would never give him one. This secret in the dark of Tobio’s bedroom was the only important point on which they differed, and on nights when match highs and Hinata’s remembered warmth drove him crazy, Tobio had no choice but to let the feeling run its course. None of this ever let up. It never went away—but it could be managed. It could be brought out on nights like this one and tolerated the rest of the time, the sharp edges dulled.

Hinata didn’t know. He couldn’t know. And what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

 

* * *

 

“You said you wanted to eat at home,” Tobio complained. His ears were cold; his hair had gotten wet when he rinsed after practice, and the night air was chilly. They stood at the side of a crosswalk, slouched against the wind and short-tempered with hunger. The frown scrunching Hinata’s face was rendered dramatic by yellow streetlights.

“I wanted to pick something up to eat at home, not _cook_. I thought the restaurant would be open!”

“I told you it’s closed on Mondays.”

“And I told you I thought it wasn’t! I didn’t know for sure!”

They glared at each other, even though Tobio was in the right. He _had_ told Hinata all this. The fact that he’d been hopeful he was wrong didn’t figure into it.

“Well, what now?” he asked.

Hinata sighed. His eyelids lowered, lashes obscuring his eyes, and something inside of Tobio seized, bypassing the hunger. In a moment of clarity he saw Hinata in front of him, smaller than he was—of course, always, always had been—with a mess of orange hair peaking out the front of his beanie, his lashes long and dark, face small and perfect and for the moment looking inward. Suddenly Tobio didn’t want to shake him until hunger pounded in time with his heartbeat in his brain the way it did for him just now; he wanted to gather up those curled, cold hands partially covered by sleeves and cradle them between his. He wanted to pull him into his chest and tell him not to worry, they still had enough in the fridge.

It was unfair, feeling like this. He was weak. Even when Hinata was stupid, or wrong, or caused them both a huge deal of inconvenience, all Hinata had to do was stop arguing for a moment, look away, and Tobio might be caught by a wave of these feelings. Even though Hinata _always_ made mistakes like this and he’d never learn if Tobio let him get away with it all the time.

“What do you want to do?” Hinata asked, looking up. His fingers were hooked together, shoulders slumped. He looked like a lost kid, and it had to be on purpose even if he didn’t totally realise the effect.

Tobio wanted to punch him or kiss him, but he let out a breath and settled his thoughts. “We can just do instant noodles with egg. To fill up a little.” Coach Ukai’s voice thundered in his mind, telling him to eat a proper meal. “Then… we’ll think of something more.”

His stomach wrapped around his spine as he waited for a response. If Hinata didn’t accept his solution he’d just walk home alone—but Hinata’s face brightened almost painfully. Tobio began walking again, and Hinata skipped to catch up. To add insult to injury, he nudged him with a shoulder as he walked. Tobio let out a grand sigh, though it didn’t help the pain in his stomach.

“Why did you want to eat at home anyway?” he complained. The dining hall was easier, and all their teammates ate there most nights. It was a good way for Tobio to keep up with how all his teammates were doing, what they were thinking and worrying about, without having to spend time outside of practice talking to them.

Hinata made a face. “We got out late. If we ate at the dining hall all we’d do when we got home is take baths and go to bed. I wanted to spend time together.”

Tobio glanced at him. “We spend all our time together.” The only times they didn’t was when Hinata hung out with other people, which was Hinata’s own choice.

“You’ve been working with Taka-chan all day today; I barely saw you.”

Tobio swallowed familiar exasperation at Hinata’s insistence on calling a two meter tall guy Taka-chan. Back when he’d told him it was ridiculous, Hinata had said there was a cuteness to Takato that warranted the suffix—and Takato seemed to love it. Tobio would never understand how Hinata anticipated these things about people. To him Takato was still just _Yamazaki_ , despite the time they spent together.

“We’d be together at the dining hall too,” Tobio said instead.

Hinata glared. “I wanted to ask you how he was doing, and stuff, and if he’s there you can’t be totally honest.”

“Only if he’s not doing well.” Tobio thought about it, then reconsidered. “Even if he’s not doing well, I’d just tell him.”

“Well, fine. I just wanted to talk to you alone about stuff! I’m allowed to want that!”

Hinata’s voice was rising in pitch, increasingly frustrated, and his face was flushed. The hunger pain in Tobio’s stomach—pain Hinata had inflicted on him—was already easing, despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten yet. Hinata was so cute like this, in winter, that strong, responsive body wrapped in layers of soft clothes. It fed a guilty need inside of Tobio. He looked his fill shamelessly; he could hardly be accused of ogling when Hinata was all bundled up.

“Stop judging me,” Hinata said, glancing up. “I got jealous, okay? It’s normal.”

 _Jealous, jealous, jealous_. Not in that way, he reminded himself. Jealous because he was possessive of Tobio’s time in practice. Because he worried—with reason—about Tobio pulling ahead of him. Volleyball would always be an uphill battle for Hinata, would always ask everything from him—perhaps more than it asked from Tobio. They gave the same level of effort, but Hinata had started countless steps behind. Yamazaki—Taka-chan, with his two meters—had started out on a whole other platform.

“I wanted you to tell me you still like working with me best,” Hinata said, deflated. His cheeks were pink above his scarf; the admission cost him, but he was still electing to share.

Because he wanted Tobio to tell him that, still? Something low in Tobio’s stomach squirmed with pleasure. “Of course I do.”

The smile Hinata sent him was bright. “Yeah?”

He had to look away. “Isn’t it obvious? Of course practicing with you is the best. But neither of us would learn anything if that was all we did.”

They walked up the outdoor stairs to their apartment, Hinata going first, and Tobio caught a glimpse of his grin. Warm sunlight poured into Tobio’s chest. He was glad he’d confirmed what ought to have been obvious. At the door of their apartment he looked down at Hinata digging out a key, seeing movie scenes in his mind. In movies he might have pushed Hinata back against the door; they might have fallen through the doorway together after long moments of kissing. All those thick winter clothes would litter the path to one of their rooms. It was an odd idea, the swelling music of a romance scene when all he heard was the rip of Hinata finally inserting the key into the lock, the clunk of the bolts and the swing of the door opening into a dark apartment.

Hinata stepped through, holding the door open for him.

“Home!” Hinata called. He banged a hand against the lightswitch and hastily removed his shoes and outerwear. Tobio closed the door behind them more slowly, thinking of those clothes littering the floor. It wouldn’t happen. That wasn’t them. Their apartment was quiet, familiar, ordinary.

Quiet, at least until Hinata started singing something about the kettle and ramen and Kageyama-kun as he skipped to the kitchen. Tobio smiled down at his shoes, exhaling. This was them, he supposed. Hinata’s stupid decisions, his little songs, Tobio being dragged into his pace. Not clothes on the floor; that was just movies. And his imagination.

He hung up his coat, stepped into his slippers, and followed Hinata in.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Tobio was jealous too.

It was stupid to be jealous; he realised that much. He took up the largest chunk of Hinata’s time overall—in class, on the court, in their apartment—but he saw Hinata texting with friends from middle and high school, with former competitors, with people they met in class he took a shine to, and he wondered if his own place in Hinata’s life was due to anything other than volleyball positions and shared passion. It seemed like everyone else had more to offer Hinata than he did, off-court, like their friendship hinged on Hinata’s fixation on volleyball and therefore him.

Volleyball was Hinata’s life, so it wasn’t a problem, but it felt a little hopeless—like the spoke of a wheel being in love with the hub. Tobio’s ability to make friends still hinged on others inserting themselves into his life; Hinata could sneeze and acquire a posse.

In short, he had so many people to choose from, and sometimes that knowledge produced an itch under Tobio’s skin.

“Aone-san hurt his ankle,” Hinata said one day at practice. Tobio stopped gulping down water, wiped his mouth.

“Oh,” he said.

Hinata rolled his hips to loosen them, then dropped sideways to stretch the muscles of his inner thigh, first one side then the other. Tobio watched the strip of skin between shorts and kneepad stretch taut over muscle, aware of the fabric of exercise shorts above and how its lines changed as Hinata moved, moulding to his body. It made his mouth go dry with want, stupid and directionless. Hinata’s thighs often featured in his fantasies. In his dreams he touched his mouth to the skin he could see, and then, slowly, to the skin he couldn’t.

_Stop it._

“Just a sprain,” Hinata said, “but he’s bummed out.”

Tobio couldn’t imagine what Date Tech’s former giant might have texted Hinata. “I hurt my ankle, let’s discuss it”? Did he use emojis? Was he better at texting than Tobio?

“It’ll get better faster if he rests,” Tobio said.

“That’s what I told him.”

Tobio nodded.

“I’ll tell him you said so too,” Hinata said, tilting his head. He seemed to be waiting for him to disagree, to tell him not to. What? Was common sense advice a secret now?

“That’s fine.”

Hinata grinned. It didn’t make sense, him wanting to involve Tobio in these things, these friendships, but he did it anyway.

“How is Kozume-san?” Tobio asked after a moment, sensing Hinata wanted to keep talking about his friends. It was odd, trying to interact with him like others did. Usually their conversations were easy, seamless, but they weren’t like the conversations Hinata had with other people, and sometimes that felt like a flaw. Occasionally, like today, Tobio tried to correct it.

 _Because I’m jealous_ , Tobio thought, exasperated with himself. Trying to dim the exasperation, he added: _and it’s useful to practice things like this._ Not all of him believed that thin justification.

At any rate, Hinata’s look of pleasure increased. “Trying to fly under the radar and failing. That professor is hounding him to do an optional thesis. Kenma doesn’t want to.”

“He still isn’t playing?”

“Sometimes he looks in on matches and helps the coach. Everyone wants him to do more, but he put his foot down on actually joining in matches.” Hinata looked skyward and smiled. “I wonder if I could convince him.”

Tobio was jealous, jealous, jealous—but Hinata wasn’t his. Not just that; he _liked_ that Hinata was good with people. It was useful. “Probably,” he said.

Hinata’s gaze dropped from the ceiling, and he let out a dismissive puff of breath. “Don’t be stupid, Kageyama-kun! I was just kidding. He’s not like us.”

“You’re the stupid one,” Tobio muttered. “So stupid you make others stupid. You could convince anyone of anything.”

There was a long look, then a click of the tongue. “Don’t believe that,” Hinata said. He seemed to speak to himself; his hand came to his chin as he looked down. “Not true. Don’t believe that at all.”

But he glanced back at Tobio as the coach called them back to the court, and Tobio thought Hinata wanted to believe him when he said he could convince anyone of anything.

Perhaps it was better for the world if Hinata continued to think he couldn’t.

 

* * *

 

Between classes and volleyball and exercise, time passed swiftly. The years that had yawned out ahead of Tobio once were eaten into, and before he knew it his second summer of university was turning to fall, the march of days less noticeable to him than the incremental changes in the team. He was playing in all official matches as the team’s regular setter now, replacing Satou more thoroughly than he had in his first year.

Satou didn’t have Sugawara’s disposition. His misery was plain in his face, and he barely ever spoke to Tobio. While Tobio was aware of the distress he caused, and tried to minimise it with awkward but earnest attempts at placating his upperclassman, he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty. Part of it was being acknowledged as an integral member of the team—but another part was that when he got to play in matches, Hinata did too. It wasn’t like their first few months together in high school, when Hinata had needed him there to be useful, but they were _better_ together. Their coach was too smart not to see that. The combination they made was electric, surpassing what either of them could do on their own.

The electricity generated on the court didn’t just disappear because a match was over. It lingered for days after, in everything: looks, words, touches. The rightness of the court made everything harder and easier at the same time, Tobio’s feelings becoming less fraught but more intense. Hinata was always the type to touch and sit too close, but after matches it reached new heights—and on Tobio’s part, his usual reserve was shattered. He let Hinata put his feet or his head in his lap; he let Hinata push and pull at him as they figured out how to sit for movies, always closer than they needed to be. It didn’t matter that they were friends, that he wasn’t meant to be feeling this; all that mattered was that they belonged together.

Hinata felt it too, even if he didn’t feel it the same way. It had been there in Hinata’s assumption that they’d live together in university, and again when he’d been confused at the end of last year when Tobio asked if they’d extend the lease they had for another year.

“You don’t like it here?” Hinata had asked then. His brow had furrowed. “I know it’s a bit far from campus, but it’s cheaper than—”

“No, I like it. I just wondered if you did.”

In reality, Tobio had wondered if Hinata’s outlook would have changed by now. Hinata had lots of friends at their university, and Tobio had thought Hinata might decide to live with someone else, someone easier: one of the people he went out with on the rare nights he could, for instance—the people Tobio still hadn’t met, because he didn’t go out, because he was different, because he didn’t care about the same things Hinata did off-court.

He knew he didn’t have the same needs others did. He wanted to get along with people. He wanted them to be happy—but he didn’t have to be there to see it all the time. Hinata was the only person whose life felt relevant to his at all times, the only person he needed to keep tabs on daily to feel whole. But lots of people were relevant to Hinata, and he enjoyed things Tobio didn’t, and some part of Tobio kept expecting that to change things between them. That dormant, apprehensive part kept waiting for Hinata’s priorities to shift.

They still hadn’t. Hinata thought Tobio was asking about the _apartment_ , not their living together. Them living together was a given. It could only mean Hinata was just as sure of their partnership as he was, feelings or no feelings. Regardless of nights out, and off-court interests, and the world of difference between their personalities, they belonged.

Tobio didn’t try again.

Now, shared match highs made them better friends than ever. Outside of endless practices they watched movies, played games, traveled with teammates to watch other teams play. Tobio didn’t have many friends, didn’t care to have many friends, but Hinata was his best one, and on a rainy Thursday night with Hinata on the couch next to him howling with laughter at something on the TV, he realised this was the happiest he’d ever been.

He wasn’t sure if that should make him terrified or glad.

“What’s with you?” Hinata asked. He was done laughing at whatever had set him off, though he was still wiping tears from his eyes.

“Me?”

“You look constipated.”

Tobio flicked Hinata’s exposed shin. “I’m not. I eat lots of vegetables. More than you.”

“What is it then?”

“Thinking about our next match,” he lied. Hinata brightened, sitting up from his couch-sprawl. His toes dug into Tobio’s thigh.

“I can’t wait,” he said, grinning. “Tanaka-san said he might be able to come out and see us in action.”

Tobio nodded. Tanaka would be cheering for Nishinoya too, if he came. Tobio could almost hear his upperclassman roaring in his ear, the whip of his shirt as he pulled it off and swung it around his head. He missed tossing to Tanaka.

“Anyway,” Hinata said, “thinking about the match is no reason to look constipated.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They went back to watching TV, and Tobio didn’t even suggest Hinata go to bed when Hinata’s eyes started drooping. He used to. He used to feel guilty about the moments he got to see Hinata with his guard down, and at the time he’d tried to prevent them from happening. These days, with Hinata so keen on letting the TV lull him to sleep, he didn’t object. It wasn’t like Hinata didn’t know he carried him to bed on those nights. It wasn’t a secret.

Tonight when he kneeled beside the couch he looked for longer than usual, though. His eyes searched, and searched, and searched. When Hinata slept, all the energy in his body sunk below the surface, still there but deeper down, leaving a layer of heavy quiet. Shaking him awake would bring it all back: all the twitching energy, the quick reactions, the bright eyes. As if waking Hinata was the same as summoning a force of nature. He could do it now, see the transformation happen.

He didn’t. Instead he let himself look, noting Hinata’s curled-up hands, his strong shoulders, his normally brash mouth. Every bit of him called to Tobio, but it was a call that couldn’t be answered. Hinata didn’t look exactly the way he did on purpose; he hadn’t shaped himself to appeal to Tobio’s every preference. It was more likely Tobio’s every preference had shaped itself to Hinata, moulded so the two were one and the same. It was his own fault, this aimless crush.

You couldn’t get everything you wanted. You couldn’t even choose _what_ you wanted.

It was fine this way, normal. Tobio’s breath gusted in and out. It was the usual way of things: a ball falling on his side of the court, a point gone, a point to the other team. That was the sacrifice you made to play.

He shook himself. _The happiest I’ve ever been_. The surprise of that thought—of his own happiness—left him winded and unsteady. He looked at the source of that happiness sprawled on the couch, face blank with sleep. Perhaps those closed eyes would bring him pain in the future. Perhaps everything would come crashing down—but there was no point worrying. It wasn’t in him to worry for long. Life was just life, and Hinata would be a part of his for as long as they played together. Maybe even longer.

There was nothing for it. He twitched a lock of hair back from Hinata’s face, then brushed the usual, say-nothing good-night kiss against his forehead, right above his eyebrow. Hinata didn’t stir, but his hands did clutch at Tobio’s shirt when he scooped him up. Tobio was used to that reflex. It didn’t mean anything, but it did block his throat with longing. Every time.

He didn’t want it to stop.

Hinata mumbled as he was lowered onto the bed, and seemed to pat his arm in casual thanks. It took the sting out of Tobio’s feelings, that pat, made him smile with exasperated affection.

Hinata was an idiot, even in half-sleep. It was a comforting thought.

 

* * *

 

The second winter of university brought trouble on its cutting winds. Their first winter together had been mild; the second made up for it. The cold forced them to limit outside exercise, and neither of them was at their best when fresh air was in short supply. Still, there was something so warm about being forced to stay in together more that Tobio couldn’t resent the weather, even as it kept him from his ideal routine. Though they usually ate in the dining halls there were experimental homemade soups—mostly awful, but almost fun to eat as a challenge—and nights spent studying for finals, and an old kotatsu borrowed from Hinata’s uncle, who grinned as widely and as often as Hinata did.

It felt like nothing could touch them in their apartment, and mostly nothing could—but a storm that took out a powerline nearby came close, and then the rest was… well.

Darkness descended with a faint buzz, all their lights winking out. There were shouts in the rest of the building as people checked on each other, but neither Hinata nor Tobio said anything. They’d been eating a tired, post-practice dinner in silence at the small kitchen table, and it was obvious to both of them what had happened. It wasn’t hard to put the storm warnings and sudden darkness together and guess at the cause.

“Do we have any candles?” Hinata asked. It was a good question. Tobio had a vague memory of one or both of them being given candles by respective parents sometime around when they moved in, but where had they put them? And had they been given matches too?

“I’ll look,” Tobio said, swallowing his bite of stew and standing. He navigated to his room by touch, taking a moment to find the stuff pile in his bottom desk drawer. He settled next to it and picked things up until he found two thick candles. Another ten minutes of searching by the light of his phone turned up a box of matches, and he returned to the kitchen in triumph. When he lit the candles, though, the golden glow revealed anxiety on Hinata’s face, seemingly unrelated to Tobio succeeding where he’d failed. Tobio’s victorious grin slipped.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Our heating… it’s electric, isn’t it?”

Tobio shrugged. That sounded right, but he knew nothing about heating—or how electricity worked. It just did.

“That means it’s off,” Hinata said. _Oh._ “We’re gonna freeze.”

“It won’t be off that long,” he reasoned. He’d never heard of mass die-offs because of power going out. “And it’s not _that_ cold.”

“It’s cold enough!” Hinata complained. He walked over to the kotatsu and felt under it, but it hadn’t been on that day— _because_ , Tobio thought, _it isn’t that cold_.

It wasn’t quite below freezing, though perhaps it would dip past that point tonight.

“We’ll be fine,” he said. “Put on more clothes.”

Hinata did as Tobio said, but within a few hours even Tobio was feeling the chill. He was tired, both from practice and the continuing dark; his body was a bad judge of temperature when tired. According to his body, it was _that_ cold after all. The tip of his nose was freezing.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, tired of letting his hands be exposed for the sake of the card game Hinata had insisted they play. He retracted them into the blanket he wore, wondering how long it would take him to get warm in bed. Would it help if he lifted weights before getting in, or would he sweat if he did and end up colder?

Hinata’s hand snaked out, catching his wrist. “We have to sleep together,” he said. He was wearing a blanket around his shoulders too, face wan with tiredness and cold. Somewhere between the blanket, the pose, and the demanding tone of voice, he looked like a weathered general.

“No we don’t,” Tobio said. It was that simple. He told the jumping thing in his chest it was that simple too. Hinata’s hand curled around his wrist became a band of heat, though Hinata’s hand hadn’t been warm when it first grabbed him.

“No, but we’ll be warmer if we do, and I’m freezing. Can you really say you’d rather sleep alone?”

That wasn’t a fair question. There were a lot of reasons Tobio would prefer not to sleep alone, but few of them were relevant to this situation. He answered honestly nonetheless—after a long, reluctant beat. “No.”

“Good! My bed or yours?”

Hinata was grinning, apparently pleased to have won the non-argument, and Tobio had to look away, face flaming. _My bed or yours_. That was so… so something. Was he really going to agree to this?

He was.

“Yours,” he managed. That way the scent of Hinata wouldn’t linger on his sheets for weeks. It’d be a one-off thing, in unfamiliar territory, and afterwards he could convince himself he’d dreamt it.

Hinata’s head tilted to the side, but if he wanted to ask anything he stopped himself. After a moment he nodded.

“Go change then,” he said. “And be fast.”

They parted, and the jumping thing moved from Tobio’s chest to zoom through his entire body, mostly wreaking havoc in his stomach. Be fast? That was impossible, with cold fingers and frayed nerves. Rushing to Hinata’s bed was the last thing he ought to be doing. Even if he accepted everything as inevitable and normal and fate, he knew this fell outside of those things. He ought to have said no, but changing his mind now would look more suspicious, not less.

And he wanted…

His hands shook. He wanted to be close just once, like that. It wasn’t like he caused the storm; he hadn’t set this up out of lecherous intent, or anything. He and Hinata were just reacting to circumstance, and in the meantime he would get to feel Hinata close in the dark. _He’d_ be the one in Hinata’s bed, not some stranger who’d appeared out of nowhere to take Hinata from him. The temptation was too strong to resist.

He took his time, hoping to calm down—but eventually he knew he was stalling. He crossed to Hinata’s room in a state of half-panic that just wouldn’t budge. It seemed like a romantic assignation, one of them creeping into the other’s bed at the assigned hour, the house dark, and it embarrassed him. The fact that he was holding a stub of candle as he opened the door made everything so much worse—like they were pretending to be from another age.

“Hey,” Hinata said through chattering teeth when Tobio entered. His candle had already been extinguished, and Tobio did the same to his quickly, not wanting to see or be seen. Now that he was here he wanted to shrink back against the wall, but it would only make the night stranger than it was. He crept under Hinata’s blankets quickly, his body stiff.

It was the right thing to do. Hinata surged towards him, laying his head on his shoulder, all curled up on one side. Hinata’s hands were frigid.

“ _Ah_ ,” Hinata sighed against Tobio’s body, the kind of sigh he made about still-hot meat buns when he was starving after practice. Like it was the best thing in the world. Tobio didn’t know whether to push him away and tell him off or gather him close. Hinata’s body was the only warm spot in the bed; the blankets hadn’t warmed a bit despite his shivering.

There was a beat of silence as Tobio lay frozen, breath shocky, arms useless.

“Here,” Hinata said, shifting suddenly away. “Spoon me.”

“Am I your servant?” Tobio sniped, more out of nervousness than annoyance. It felt like his throat had tightened to the width of a needle’s tip, like he’d squeak if he tried to say more.

“Aren’t you?” Hinata asked, and laughed when Tobio kicked him. “Please?”

Tobio hoped his heart wouldn’t betray him by thumping loud enough for Hinata to feel through his chest. He turned to curl around him, laying his lower arm beneath the pillow and his top arm over Hinata’s waist. It wasn’t comfortable, because he didn’t know what to do with the arm over Hinata—the most logical thing seemed to be to hold on, which he couldn’t do—but it wasn’t bad.

All his senses filled with Hinata’s nearness, drowning out everything else. Hinata’s shampoo, the scent of his skin, the familiar shape of him now pressed close. That strong, compact body that could fly all over the court, the muscular legs that pushed him into higher and higher jumps, now right up against him—

Tobio swallowed. He knew his heart was beating too fast, and his body warmed accordingly. Hinata shifted back into him to absorb his warmth more firmly, letting out a sigh. For a moment Tobio was all panic—and then it morphed to an odd, undeserved kind of triumph.

Hinata was shifting back into _him_ —not some stranger. Into the person he’d known for years, had fought more times than either of them could count. The person he’d sworn to defeat. It made pride zing through Tobio to have gotten here, even though he knew it was all just meaningless happenstance. The situation was so unlikely, so stupid, but somehow they were here. On his next exhale, Hinata tried to back up even more.

It was too much contact: from his chest to down past his crotch, all of Tobio’s front was up against Hinata’s body. It could become a problem fast, especially with every inhale smelling like Hinata. _This is the person_ , Tobio’s body insisted, _this is the one_.

As long as it kept its insistence private, Tobio didn’t mind—but Hinata shifted more. Tobio’s breath caught in his throat.

 _Don’t do that_ , he almost told Hinata. The words were swallowed at the last minute. If he said them Hinata’s next question would be _why?_ , and he didn’t know how to answer. He clenched his jaw and tried to relax.

Relaxing with a clenched jaw while trying not to breathe was difficult.

Gradually, at the speed of a crawl, his limbs got heavier. He still felt like his blood was racing through his veins at a thousand kilometers an hour, but it did so within a still body, warm and tired. The post-practice fatigue helped. To Hinata, he would seem relaxed.

Hopefully.

“Kageyama?”

The heaviness receded, switching to a lance of fight-or-flight adrenaline, but—no, his body hadn’t betrayed him yet, no matter how it wanted to. “What?”

“Are you happy?”

“ _What_?”

“Just—are you happy?”

This fresh new wave of inanity provided a distraction, if nothing else. He breathed out slowly through his nose before asking: “Why?”

“My mother asked me if I was happy at university. It made me think. Are you happy?”

“Do I seem unhappy?”

“You just seem like yourself,” Hinata said. “I’m not sure I’d be able to tell if you were happy or unhappy. In a life way, I mean, not day to day. I can tell day to day.”

“I’m happy,” Tobio said. It was automatic. He _was_ happy—the happiest he’d ever been, he’d thought a few months ago—but it occurred to him that he’d been avoiding thinking about the future for a while now. His view ahead ended at the stop of university, as if graduation was a drop off a cliff instead of an exciting new stage of life. The next big stepping stones were shrouded in fog, guaranteed to include volleyball but no longer the tantalising beacon of strong opponents and amazing matches they had once been.

Hinata echoed him in volleyball, but not in everything else. Hinata was better at being a normal person, connecting with normal people, having the same priorities as normal people. His life past university would be different from Tobio’s, and Tobio still didn’t know how to deal with it. The only thing he prepared for the future was his body: eating right, exercising right, not overdoing things.

He recognised the behaviour. He’d done the same thing near the end of high school, before he’d known he and Hinata would be staying together. It was as if he had no grip on the ground, as if Hinata’s absence could send him spinning wildly. It probably could. Without Hinata a hole would open up around him. He wouldn’t be totally isolated—he did have some friends, and could reach out when he needed specific things—but he wasn’t sure he’d ever find someone he connected with in the same way. A part of him would go unused, and his life would get smaller.

_Depressing._

“Are you?” he asked suddenly, desperate for Hinata to say he was.

“Me? Yeah, of course.”

The words were strangely clipped; Tobio couldn’t tell why. Because the question was absurd? That was probably it; Hinata didn’t have it in him to be unhappy ‘in a life way’.

Hinata shifted slightly, sighing and getting more comfortable. Tobio kept himself still.

“Night, Kageyama.”

“Night,” Tobio echoed. He waited for Hinata’s breathing to change, thinking about that nebulous future, the one that might be smaller and emptier than his life now. It didn’t scare him, exactly, but it made him… uncomfortable. He thought Hinata would stay by his side, but there were no guarantees. Hinata’s goals could shift. Tobio had seen it happen plenty in people he thought he understood until that point, people who excelled but who chose not to continue. He’d have to think about what he wanted for himself sooner or later—consider professional teams, cities, fallback plans...

After what felt like a long time Hinata twitched in a sure sign of sleep, bringing him dreamily back to the present. Hinata’s warmth was sinking into his front, no longer quite as threatening, and Tobio became aware once more of the solid weight of him in the bed. Here, with him. Not going anywhere for the moment. Tobio’s face was close to the back of Hinata’s neck like this; he could smell his skin. All of Hinata was so close, and warm, and for the moment they still belonged together.

He was grateful. He would never tell Hinata, because it would be cheesy and Hinata would tease him, but he was beyond grateful. No matter how often Hinata inconvenienced him, or made them late, or drove him crazy through no fault of his own. It was all worth it to have someone who could anticipate him, who understood. That he wanted to enfold that person and keep him close was a side-effect, but even that was barely unwelcome. It was just a part of Tobio, a natural response to the situation. Natural as breathing.

 _Good night_ , he thought, gripped by that stupid swell of gratefulness, and brushed an almost-kiss against the bare length of skin between Hinata’s collar and nape.

And felt Hinata stiffen, clearly awake.

All tiredness disappeared in a rush of fear as implications sank in. _Hinata’s awake, Hinata’s awake, he felt me kiss him, he knows now—_ the words repeated themselves endlessly, chasing each other through his head. _He knows he knows he knows_. His mind was so loud he almost didn’t notice the quiet as moments ticked by.

Hinata had stiffened, but he hadn’t said anything; no bright, confused voice going _Kageyama_?

Tobio’s throat ached with apologies, excuses—but his tongue lay thick and still. Hinata was breathing very regularly, and it occurred to Tobio he was pretending to be asleep. He hadn’t asked _why did you kiss me?_ He hadn’t kicked him away.

He’d noticed the kiss, stiffened, then pretended nothing happened.

Tobio’s insides went sharp with fear and guilt and shame—but those feelings were outweighed by a growing, numbing sense of betrayal, one he tried not to lend credence to but that grew nonetheless.

He’d always thought Hinata was unaware of his feelings. He’d assumed that if Hinata knew about the way he felt, he’d confront him. But what if that wasn’t true? What if Hinata had known all along?

Minutes passed. Hinata didn’t say anything, and the timeframe to do so went by, then was swallowed up by more time passing. It was clear Hinata meant to stick with his pretense.

If this was a theme in their life together, how many other things had Hinata pretended not to notice? How many looks, touches, glances? How obvious had Tobio been?

_Hinata can read people. He’s good at reading people._

It was a terrible realisation, that this _reading_ might apply to him. Hinata understood him—but he wasn’t meant to know about this one part. It was meant to be so surprising even Hinata couldn’t guess, couldn’t see it in him.

But why would this one emotion be any different? Why would Hinata be able to read everything else, and overlook this? Why had Tobio ever thought he would be unaware, save his own assurance that Hinata was bright, and honest, and didn’t do secrets?

If it was something he really cared about, wouldn’t even Hinata learn to pretend?

He felt sick and overwarm. He wanted to run back to his own bed and hide under the covers. He wanted to have it out now, to simply confront Hinata and ask him what he knew, what he thought—but fear kept him in check.

He lay still, as stiff as Hinata had been, and waited for the night to be over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who ignored my kind warnings not to read yet! Your comments made my week, and here is the next chapter as promised. The next will be up by Friday! 
> 
> If you waited: thank you also for reading. If you are reading this fic in general: thank you for looking at this self-indulgent baby of mine.
> 
> NOTE: there is a scene of skimming someone else's email without permission, so if this is something that sets you off please have a friend read and tell you whether it'll be bad for you? You can ctrl+f to "he stood. his heart beat" to get past the scene from "times changed".
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The first time Shouyou realised he was in love with Kageyama he was annoyed. Not because he was in love, exactly, but because he was in love with  _ Kageyama, _ and that felt like losing. 

He kept his revelation a secret on instinct, because as long as he hid it Kageyama wouldn’t know he was winning from him in this one important way—but that was just his initial response. Shouyou would have told him sooner or later if nature had run its course; it was his better judgement that convinced him to keep it all a secret.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as a shock to realise he was in love. He’d been realising it for a long time, after all.

“You don’t have someone else you like?” Midori had asked Shouyou the week after they broke up. It was just after summer vacation their last year of high school. Crickets were sending out thready cries outside, the sky blazing, the classroom stifling despite open windows and a whisper of breeze. Somehow Shouyou and Midori were closer after the breakup than before, so he was sure he’d done the whole thing wrong. She didn’t seem to mind, though, and he was grateful for that.

Presently they sat together during lunch, huddled over the desk between them so as not to be overheard. Tobio had a tendency to disappear whenever Midori showed up, and he was absent today as well.

“Someone else?” Shouyou asked.

Midori’s eyes were dark and kind, usually placid, but now she held up her hands in almost Yachi-like panic. “I wasn’t accusing! I just thought maybe—”

“Ah—no one, really! I’m sorry!” Shouyou sputtered. He clapped his hands together and bowed apologies to her for whatever had given her the impression he liked someone else. 

The cough of breeze cooled the nervous sweat at his neck, Midori laughed, and the moment set in his mind to become a memory, a signpost:  _ still unaware _ . What he said was true at the time. It was true, and yet… he’d begun to feel it, even then. It had been hard to notice beneath his standard high-energy state, but there was a restlessness inside of him he couldn’t put a name to, something that never went away. It manifested as a slight dissatisfaction with everything he did, everything he accomplished. It pushed him harder. He didn’t know for sure what was causing it—his  _ mind _ didn’t know for sure what was causing it—until the following summer, after entering university.

His family had gone on a trip. It was only eleven days away: eleven days with his family, spent on the beaches of Okinawa crawling about the rocks with Natsu and trying to drum up a worthy beach volleyball league on a beach full of strangers. He’d made friends, but all he’d wanted was for Kageyama to be there too. He’d sent pictures, and lines and lines of text to each of Kageyama’s terse, conversation-ending replies. Worse, he knew Kageyama wasn’t killing their conversations on purpose; he could almost feel him trying to extend the contact at times, and once Kageyama had sent a message that just said “what are you doing now?” after hours of silence. For Kageyama, that kind of conversational initiative was equal to a three-page love letter.

Every night Shouyou lay sleepless in the budget hotel room he shared with Natsu, the sheet too light on top of him. His body was filled with bright, unignorable longing. He kept cringing, tossing and turning. A vibration from his phone on the nightstand one of these endless nights made all of his skin ache, his heartbeat picking up with terrible relief. Unlocking the phone to discover the message was from Kageyama felt like winning the lottery.

“No,” he groaned after a moment, realising—something. Almost. The inkling was there, trying to bubble to the surface. He pushed it far, far down.  _ Not now, not now, not now. _

The inkling allowed itself to be repressed only until a few days later, when Shouyou returned to the apartment they shared. He stood outside the door, trying to find the key. His impatience—his nervousness?—made his hands shake.

He let out a noise of frustration, taking off his bag to pat down every pocket. Where was his key? He hadn’t left it in Miyagi, had he? He was bending over his bag to look inside when the door swung open, making him shock up.

“It’s unlocked,” Kageyama was saying as he opened the door, another remark already halfway out his open mouth—but the remark seemed to die on his tongue as their eyes met. The moment stretched; Shouyou in the open hallway, his heart in his throat, and Kageyama framed in the door looking larger than life and so familiar but so unfamiliar—unfamiliar in a way that made Shouyou feel shy and gangly. He wanted to stamp his feet in frustration.

_ Not Kageyama,  _ he thought at the same time as some other, unwelcome part of him thought:  _ of course Kageyama. _

“Stupid,” Kageyama finished at last, so belated Shouyou forgot what he was being called stupid for.  _ The door being unlocked _ , he remembered after a moment,  _ right.  _

It took him another moment to gather himself, to pick up the shards of his mind, his self.

“Would a stupid person bring you souvenirs?” he asked. His cheeks were flushing. He hoped Kageyama would attribute it to annoyance and not the fact that just seeing Kageyama embarrassed him now. Kageyama looked flushed too—but the time of day and his exercise clothes promised it was from weight lifting, not embarrassment.

“Depends. Did you?”

“No!” Shouyou lied. “You don’t deserve them.”

“Then I guess a stupid person wouldn’t,” Kageyama said, and Shouyou ran at him. The resulting tussle helped explain his red cheeks, even as it pushed his heart into overdrive and promised life would never, ever be the same. 

It was already exhausting, feeling like this. 

Eventually, Kageyama disentangled himself—gasping for breath—to bring Shouyou’s bag inside and close the door behind them. The sound of it was a gong going off inside Shouyou’s chest. He was home—and it felt different.

He felt different.

They limped through a conversation that hopefully felt normal to Kageyama but felt awkward and stilted to Shouyou, and then Shouyou was allowed to hide in the guise of putting his stuff away in his room. The reprieve of unpacking gave him time to think. The first few minutes were spent in total shock, registering his own nervousness, his fluttering heartbeat.

He clutched a hand over his chest. “What the hell?” he asked it softly.

The facts were pretty clear, he supposed. He liked Kageyama.  _ That _ way. The sight of Kageyama’s bare arms as he carried his bag inside had felt like a physical force pushing at him. 

Shouyou’s confidence was shaken. All of a sudden, his place in the world—a place he’d been sure about—seemed to be up in the air. His body told him his place in the world was wrapped around Kageyama skin to skin; his mind reeled with shock at the thought.

_ Kageyama. _

It took several more long breaths, several heart-pounding moments, but he recovered. He’d faced scary things before, and this was just one more scary thing.

_ God, Kageyama. _

Eventually he calmed enough to wonder what he ought to do. He didn’t want Kageyama to win, to have this to hold over him—but would he really spend the rest of his life with his heart turning traitor around Kageyama, having to pretend everything was normal? At first he thought no; at first he thought he’d just go ahead and tell him, and accuse him of doing some dark ritual to make him fall in love while he was at it. But then…

Shouyou swallowed. His mind bumped up against a memory from last summer, during the brief period he and Midori had dated. It was the only time he and Kageyama had ever talked about love in any depth, and Kageyama had been furious for all of it. 

“You’ve had so many confessions,” Shouyou had tried after other tacks didn’t work to draw his unusually sullen friend out, “so why don’t you accept one?”

If Kageyama was jealous Shouyou was getting ahead of him in love, which seemed the likeliest reason for his recent moodiness, the solution was obvious. Shouyou would force it through somehow; he didn’t want to break up with Midori, but he didn’t want to deal with this version of Kageyama fulltime either. If Kageyama dated someone too, all would be resolved.

“Why would I?”

“For… for experience! You won’t have to worry about me getting ahead of you. And I guess…” Shouyou scratched the back of his head. He knew what he was meant to want, but that seemed a long way off. Mostly he’d been so blindsided by the fact that someone cute and smart liked him, so excited at the prospect of dating, that he’d accepted with barely a thought. Of course he’d date Midori. Who wouldn’t? And if Kageyama was quiet and distant because he was jealous, there were plenty of girls—well, at least three—who liked Kageyama. Shouyou knew for sure, because they’d all asked him for tips on how to approach him.

“And?” Kageyama asked, eyes narrowed.

“For love stuff?” Shouyou tried. He didn’t love Midori, but that wasn’t meant to happen right away. He liked her, and talking to her made his insides feel like they were trying to be outsides, like he was filled up with butterflies mad for escape.

“What do I need love stuff for?” Kageyama asked. He wasn’t looking at Hinata, even though they were sitting next to each other. They were outside the gym, damp with sweat. “To satisfy urges?”

He said  _ urges _ like it was a dirtier word than it already was, and somehow having him say it embarrassed Shouyou. Even the thought of Kageyama  _ having _ urges embarrassed him, now he thought about it. 

“Don’t say it like that!”

“Isn’t that what you mean, though?”

“Not just that!”

“I don’t need that,” Kageyama said. He still looked annoyed, brows pulled together. “I don’t need anything from anyone.”

“You can’t marry a volleyball,” Shouyou said churlishly, not understanding why Kageyama was making this so difficult—and Kageyama shoved him, hard. It wasn’t a playful shove; he was angry. Shouyou knew the difference.

“I don’t want to marry a volleyball,” Kageyama said.

“Well, what  _ do _ you want?” Shouyou asked. He was angry too. Kageyama was being so cold lately, as if it was their first year again. They were  _ friends _ now. Friends talked. They talked about everything, and yet Kageyama acted like he wanted nothing to do with this new thing happening in Shouyou’s life.

“To be left alone!” Kageyama said. “Not everyone is like you. I don’t want what you want.”

“Everyone wants love!”

“Not everyone! Shut up, Hinata! Just stop bothering me!”

Shouyou had nearly flown at him, as if he could beat the answers out. Why was Kageyama so angry? Why did the thought of love upset him so much? 

“You make it sound like it’s disgusting,” Shouyou muttered finally. He tried to make it sound like a farfetched thing, but it was something he worried about—how Kageyama disappeared when Midori was there, how he never gave anyone who confessed to him a second thought. It seemed like it might be the truth—and Kageyama confirmed it.

“It is,” Kageyama said. “I don’t want anything to do with it, so you can stop this and never talk to me about it again.”

He’d gotten to his feet, and that was the end of the conversation. Shouyou hadn’t resolved to do as Kageyama said, of course—if he wanted to talk about love to him again he would—but the disgust anything mildly romantic caused in Kageyama was… memorable. Shouyou had noticed it again and again, in the way Kageyama looked away during romantic scenes in movies, how he glared at couples holding hands in public, how he could discuss an entire TV show without mentioning what he thought of any of the good-looking people in it, despite Shouyou’s prompting.

Maybe Kageyama didn’t hate love. Maybe he was just weird and difficult—but having Kageyama be disgusted with him would be painful. Would he stop looking at him, knowing what thoughts he might be having? How would they play? Would Shouyou have to move out?

Shouyou was no coward. His instinct was to face anything, anyone, no matter how many scary things and people lurked in the bathroom of life—but in this one way, this one time, he’d take the safe road. He’d poop before the tournament and avoid the bathroom altogether. Of all the bad things that could happen, Kageyama hating him was the worst.

Deciding not to tell Kageyama made him feel about five years older. It seemed the adult thing to do, saving someone else pain—but it sucked, too.

“Do you have a thousand things?” Kageyama asked from the hallway, interrupting Shouyou’s troubled recollections. Just the simple fact of him standing behind the door made Shouyou breathe in gasps; he pressed a hand to his heart again.

“What the hell, Kageyama! Don’t lurk.”

“I asked you a question!”

“You’re sneaking around!” God, god, this was going to be impossible. He should tell him, he should tell him, but—he swallowed, took a breath. He tried to steady himself. “You’ll get your souvenirs when I’m good and ready! Not that you deserve them.”

“Idiot,” Kageyama said. He pushed the door open, and Shouyou was no longer alone and unobserved in his room. He was in full view now, cross-legged on the floor. Kageyama stood over him in the doorframe, and his expression was…  _ oh _ . Shouyou’s heart seemed to sink into his stomach, resigned to fate but still wishing it could rise up and rebel against the tide of better judgment. Kageyama was smiling one of those non-creepy, full-body smiles—one of the ones that rendered him human and handsome. Not just handsome. He looked…

_ Don’t think radiant _ , Shouyou begged himself, and managed to curtail the thought. Instead, he choked out a garbled: “D’you want presents or not?!”

Kageyama sat, right there in the doorframe, and if he wasn’t radiant he was at the very least glowing. He looked  _ happy _ . Shouyou swallowed.

“I do,” Kageyama said, “obviously.”

“Then stop calling me an idiot,” Shouyou said primly, holding up a wrapped rectangular box.

“I will,” Kageyama said, and Shouyou handed him the box. After taking it, Kageyama glanced up. “For a little while.”

Shouyou hissed, and a month ago he might have pushed at Kageyama for the underhanded tactic, and they would have wrestled, but his hands stayed still in his lap. They felt foreign to him, and he wondered if being with Kageyama like this would ever feel normal again. There was a sense of loss at that—but mostly he was glad of his decision. Whatever Kageyama thought of love, it wouldn’t affect their play. Kageyama wouldn’t fall in love with someone and leave Shouyou hanging, considering how he felt about love. Perhaps they couldn’t live together forever, but that was future Shouyou’s problem. For the moment, he and Kageyama were friends, and lived in close proximity, and played together basically from dawn until dusk, and it was enough.

It might leave holes in an otherwise satisfying life, but it was  _ good _ . Shouyou wouldn’t go after this one thing so he could go after all the others. One point lost, so others could be gained. It made sense.

His idea of  _ normal _ would adjust, and it would be as if nothing ever changed. He was sure of it.

 

* * *

 

Just as Shouyou expected, he got used to being in love with Kageyama—and he got used to it faster than expected, as if loving him wasn’t such a departure from the norm. Somewhere along the way, it even occurred to him to be smug.

Of course, it wasn’t easy daydreaming about Kageyama’s hair, or eyes, or hands, when it would never go anywhere. It wasn’t easy to look at Kageyama while he exercised and feel like he was going to swallow his whole tongue—but there were perks too. Namely, that he now noticed when  _ other _ people looked at Kageyama the way he did, and none of those people would ever live with Kageyama, or play volleyball with him, or be close to him at all. 

Sometimes Shouyou looked at Kageyama seated next to him in class—all the long lines of his body, the perfect aesthetics of his face, the practiced stillness of his hands—and couldn’t help grinning, heart thumping with triumph.

The hot guy sitting next to him was his best friend. There were worse fates—like if Kageyama ever found out he thought of him as  _ the hot guy _ . He’d never admit to that thought, even if Kageyama had a brain transplant and decided he liked lovey-dovey stuff after all.

“What?” Kageyama asked during one of these smug assessments. Anatomy class hadn’t started yet, and he’d noticed Shouyou’s giddy looks. Shouyou didn’t answer; he was too busy looking at Kageyama’s hair in well-disguised adoration. It was styled just slightly, messy in the way he’d started doing it after Shouyou said it looked cool that way in their third year. It  _ did _ look cool—kind of careless, like he’d just rolled out of bed. 

“What?” Kageyama asked again, straightening in his chair. He was so tall; he made the desk seem undersized. That was a good look too.

“Nothing,” Shouyou said, but he was still smiling, and Kageyama didn’t believe him. 

Kageyama reached out and caught a hand in Shouyou’s hair, though it barely pulled. It felt more like a caress than a gesture of impatience, and Shouyou had to stopper his throat with force of will to keep from sighing with pleasure. Kageyama pulling at his hair had long since become something he looked forward to. If he grew it out more again, would Kageyama touch it more? Something to consider.

“Tell me,” Kageyama ordered. He snatched his hand away after another moment. Obviously the grab had been more instinctual than intended; Kageyama had been sleepy until this interlude.

_ Annoy Kageyama more while he’s sleepy _ , Shouyou noted to himself.

“Your hair,” he said in the meantime.

Kageyama’s hands came up to feel his head.

“I don’t mean it looks bad, stupid.”

Kageyama stopped, frowning at him. His hands lowered. The unsure look gave Shouyou shivers—and an idea.

“Here,” he said, and reached with both hands. Kageyama leaned his head forward, allowing access even though there was nothing to fix. Shouyou carded his fingers through silky dark hair—currently just slightly waxy with product at the front, but nothing was perfect. Shouyou tugged in a pretend attempt to restyle it. He savoured the feeling, remembering all the ways he knew this hair. Mostly he revisited all the times he’d seen Kageyama with his hair wet right after a bath, clad only in a towel draped low on his hips. The image formed before his eyes as his fingers twitched here and there.

It wasn’t like Kageyama hung out like that, in a towel, but Kageyama had to pass the hallway between the bathroom and his room after bathing. It always made Hinata feel like his insides were on fire when he caught glimpses.

No one currently casting glances at the two of them would ever see Kageyama in just a towel, face open, going about his business while his body made choirs of angels sing. They wouldn’t see the dips by his hipbones, the lines of his muscles, the way his collarbones seemed somehow lewd in their perfection. Shouyou had good reason to be smug.

He also had good reason to want to touch Kageyama, but he’d been touching Kageyama for too long now, and if he didn’t want to be reprimanded he had to stop.

“Okay,” he said regretfully, drawing back. “Perfect.”

“I doubt that.” 

Kageyama didn’t look at him as he straightened and turned to face front. One of his hands came up to tug at his fringe suspiciously, and he didn’t meet Shouyou’s eyes—which was good, because Shouyou was looking at him longingly again. His palms still tingled with the feel of Kageyama’s hair. It felt like he’d done something illicit, but Kageyama had let him do it. It wasn’t his fault. 

Shouyou shifted in his seat, waiting for the professor to start. Kageyama might not be his boyfriend, or his lover, or any of those love-category things Shouyou wanted him to be, but he was his friend and rival and teammate, and he allowed Shouyou closer than he allowed anyone else. He never questioned Shouyou belonging at his side, just like Shouyou never questioned the reverse. That meant more than any kiss ever could.

It was enough. Shouyou was determined for it to be enough, and so it would be.

 

* * *

 

Before reality hit and hobbled Shouyou to onesided crush central, he’d inserted himself into plenty of friend groups at his university. People from class, people from the team, people tossing balls or frisbees around in public areas. He was invited to things, always, and by extension so was Kageyama—but Kageyama had been to exactly one party, Shouyou’s third, and he’d spent the whole time watching everyone like he was trying to solve a math problem. Shouyou had the impression he’d been there to check it out and make sure it was safe and not going to end in Shouyou getting falling down drunk or just broken-limbed in general. Kageyama never went to another party after this single scouting mission, so he’d obviously concluded it was safe—and not something he had any interest in.

“People always make a big deal when I show up to stuff,” Kageyama said one evening when Shouyou invited him out, more out of habit than hopefulness. What Kageyama said was true, but Shouyou was almost surprised he’d noticed.

“It’s because you don’t go to stuff or hang out with people. So if you show up, it’s special. People feel good that you’re there, cause they got chosen by someone picky.”

“But I didn’t choose them. They’re just people we run into because of you.”

Shouyou laughed. “Yeah, but you stick around!”

“Because you want me to.”

“Yeah, well.” He tried not to grin too hard, but it was hopeless. He loved Kageyama waiting for him, tagging along with him. He’d love it if Kageyama would tag along to an occasional party, but at least he came with Shouyou when there were spontaneous frisbee or flag football games on no-practice days. 

“Anyway, I’m not going.” Kageyama didn’t even look up from the fingernail he was filing to answer. “I don’t know why you still ask.”

Shouyou sighed. The truth was that the parties had lost some of their shine, even though he liked the noise and laughter. People always got drunker than he did after a while, like it was a race, and Kageyama wasn’t there but the threat of Kageyama’s possible judgement on the other end was. Very early on, though after realising his crush, Shouyou had been tempted to get really drunk so he might confess his feelings to Kageyama guiltlessly—but he was afraid Kageyama would be disgusted with him for  _ two _ things then: love and drunkenness. Not to mention that drinking made Shouyou feel kind of nauseated, and he didn’t need any more stomach problems than he already had.

So he didn’t drink much, and he liked the people he got to spend time with at these events, but Kageyama wasn’t there, and Shouyou missed him.

He went out anyway, that night and others. Sometimes at bigger events he looked at good-looking people, people who sometimes looked back at him with interest, and he thought things like  _ I could kiss that person if I wanted to _ . He’d notice someone looking at his mouth as he talked, eyes heavy-lidded, and suddenly he’d know that if he gave any sort of sign he could… do stuff. Stuff he hadn’t done with Midori because just holding hands back then had seemed to send him halfway to cardiac arrest. But people at university seemed so much older, more mature, made him feel like holding hands was nothing to them. They’d think he was an innocent for having felt that way once.

It didn’t matter that he  _ could _ kiss people. He was curious—but somehow the thought of Kageyama at home stopped him, like they were in a monogamous relationship only Shouyou knew about. It was really stupid—he knew it was really stupid—but he couldn’t help feeling like he couldn’t kiss anyone but the person he liked.

And the person he liked didn’t want to be kissed. Looked faint at the sight of kissing on TV. Had told him not to talk about that stuff with him.

Shouyou looked at pretty people at parties—but that was all he did. He was curious about kissing, about more than kissing, but satisfying his curiosity with someone who wasn’t Kageyama just to see what it was like didn’t seem worth it. Not yet, at least. Maybe one day, when it all didn’t feel so intense—when Kageyama’s existence didn’t make every single person Shouyou might kiss pale in comparison—but not yet. 

Maybe not ever—but he tried not to think about that.

 

* * *

 

The volleyball rolled back and forth between them, tracking unevenly across the gymnasium floor. Its familiar skin tempted Hinata to whack it instead of gently rolling, but every muscle in his body was trembling from exhaustion, and if he got up he would probably fall over. It was how he’d ended up on the floor in the first place: he’d fallen and pretended he sat down on purpose.

“Sit with me,” he’d told Kageyama, to aid his cover story. “I’m tired.”

Kageyama had sat. Shouyou spotted the trembling of his legs as they folded, so he knew they’d both overdone it. If Kageyama scolded him he’d point it out, but there was no sign of an oncoming lecture yet. 

Rolling the ball between them kept their exhaustion-numbed minds fully occupied for a long time.

“If you couldn’t be anything to do with volleyball,” Shouyou said now, into their comfortable silence, “what would you be?”

Kageyama thought. “Other sports—”

“Not allowed. Not sports.”

“So if sports didn’t exist?”

“Basically, yeah.”

Kageyama thought about it for a long time. He took the ball hostage, rolling it back and forth between his palms, his eyes narrowed into the middle distance. The tap of his hands and the ball’s unsteady roll were the only sounds in the whole gym.

Shouyou watched him. He liked it that Kageyama no longer sniped at him for these random questions. Instead he took them in stride, weighing options like he had all the time in the world to indulge Shouyou. It was how Shouyou had known in their second year that they were friends, when Kageyama had started humouring him no matter how dumb his questions were. Of course, he still yelled and scolded at other times, but back then it seemed to be out of habit, and now it almost seemed like a joke between them—like he was amusing them both. 

It was just what they did, arguing. Not arguing would be like going through life without rice, or the colour blue, or something. Plus, both of them were annoying in their own ways. Shouyou was big enough to admit it. Maybe he’d point it out one day, just so Kageyama could deny being annoying and Shouyou could tell him he just wasn’t as self-aware as he was.

That would  _ really _ annoy Kageyama. Shouyou almost smiled imagining it.

“Calligraphy?” Kageyama said presently, sounding less than certain about his choice.

Shouyou frowned. “Your handwriting isn’t any better than mine. And I’m not sure that’s a job.”

“I don’t know… it’s precise, right?”

“It’s art,” Shouyou said, with the tone he reserved for things they were equally bad at.  _ Art _ .

Kageyama frowned. “Do gym teachers still exist, if there are no sports?”

“No. And you’d make a terrible teacher.”

“Shut up! I taught  _ you, _ didn’t I?”

“Taught me to value good teachers,” Shouyou shot, and Kageyama picked up the ball and threw it at him. Shouyou caught it easily, laughing all the while. He hugged it to his chest with a grin splitting his face, happy to have gotten a rise out of such a tired Kageyama. He wasn’t exaggerating, though. Kageyama was terrible at teaching. He didn’t know why he’d ever asked him for help on his serve in the first place.

Kageyama looked at him, eyes narrowed—and then the expression cleared. He sighed. “Well, what would you be?”

“I’d work with children,” Shouyou said immediately, putting up a bicep. “With my superior energy! Teaching, or something. Or maybe in one of those places where you just play with children until the parents show up after work.”

He waited for Kageyama to tell him he was no good at teaching either, but he didn’t.

“Do you actually like children?” Kageyama asked instead.

Shouyou shrugged. “This is just make-believe.” 

“ _ Bad _ make-believe.”

Shouyou laughed at the haunted look on Kageyama’s face. He rolled the ball back to him. “I’m just getting to know you better! You know, all your deepest, darkest secret things.”  _ Like that in a world without sports you’d do calligraphy _ . That was an odd one to think about.

“You already know everything about me,” Kageyama said, eyes rising to meet Shouyou’s. “We’ve known each other too long for all that.”

The look that passed between them went on and on—wordlessly significant—and to Shouyou’s mind there were questions in it. If there were questions in it, then they didn’t already know everything about each other. Right? 

He raised his brows. “Have we?”

“You tell me about your toilet habits,” Kageyama said. “You tell me so much I wish you’d stop.”

Shouyou laughed, hard, and after a moment Kageyama smiled along. His smiles were easy now, and kind of frequent, and Shouyou always thought it was like walking in sunlight when they happened. Not broad sunlight, like on an empty field, but like being in a forest. Cool air, breeze—and then those patches where the sun came through. Unexpected warmth—that was what Kageyama’s smiles were.

“If I don’t tell you my poop consistency, how will you know I’m healthy?”

Kageyama let out a sigh. “You could give less detail, at least.”

“And be boring?”

“I’ll bear it somehow.” 

Their eyes met—and after a moment they both began to laugh, their tiredness evident in their amusement at the weak joke. By mutual agreement they started rolling the ball back and forth some more in silence, and Shouyou hoped Kageyama was rethinking his request for less detail on his bowel movements.  _ So insulting. _

“Are you ready to go yet?” Kageyama asked. 

“I’m stiff.”

“Of course you are.” Kageyama stood with some difficulty, clearly trying to hide how stiff he was himself. Shouyou raised his arms. 

“Pull me up.”

“Don’t overdo it, next time.”

“You overdid it too.”

“I know.”

Kageyama pulled him up, and Shouyou resisted the urge to stumble all over him in pretend clumsiness. The feeling between them was good right now, natural; he didn’t want to ruin it. 

He was learning how to live with his crush, how to not let every moment be coloured by it. He’d find out where to draw the line somewhere along the way, how to eke out what he needed without asking for too much or changing things between them irreparably.

Kageyama went unmolested, letting Shouyou’s unresisting hands drop, and they walked home together with the usual amount of space between them—with only occasional nudging.

In Shouyou’s mind, where no one could see, he imagined what it would be like to hold hands.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think you’ll always love him?” asked Yachi’s tinny voice over the phone in spring, eight months into Shouyou’s new, Kageyama-liking life. She sounded wistful.

Shouyou choked. “Always?”

Yachi echoed his choke, and her voice went high-pitched. “Was that too much? I just—well, it sounded like you were really giving up! And my mother, she talks about someone she loved in high school, and it would never go anywhere, and she thought she’d love them forever, but eventually of course she moved on—”

“Uh!” Shouyou interrupted, before Yachi could run out of oxygen in her rush to explain. “Isn’t it different, though?”

There was silence on the line.

“Well, for me, it’s not just the person I like. Kageyama is my partner. Even if it’s not… like that… it’s good, you know!”

Again there was silence. Yachi’s breathing could only just be heard—and when she finally spoke she sounded almost sad. “Ah—yeah. Well, that’s true.”

“Don’t be sad, Yachi-san. I’m not.”

“I’m not sad!” she protested. There was a long silence, then: “It would be sad if you had to stop being friends, that’s all.”

“Why would we have to stop?”

“There… well…” She was hedging.

“You can tell me!”

“That’s what happens in movies, isn’t it? People get tired of being around the person they want but can’t have, and they have to make a new life, and sad music plays as they leave town but you know it was for the better, and I can just imagine it and I hate it and I don’t want it to happen to you but if it’s for the best then—”

Shouyou began to laugh. “It won’t happen, Yachi-san. I promise.”

“But if it would be good for it to happen, it should! You can’t stay together just for me!”

The sound of the front door opening stoppered the laugh in Shouyou’s throat, and he jumped almost a foot off the couch. He yelled a flustered  _ welcome back _ to Kageyama’s  _ I’m home _ , his vocal chords aching with secrets. Somehow it felt like the topic of his phone conversation was written on his forehead, like Kageyama was about to find out everything. He clutched the phone tightly, secretively.

“Ah—tell Kageyama I said hello,” Yachi commanded. It cut through the fog of his panic.

“I will,” he said. He looked over the back of the couch at Kageyama in the entryway, bending to take off his shoes, bags of groceries set on the hardwood floor.  _ It would be sad if you had to stop being friends _ . But they wouldn’t. They had volleyball. They would always have volleyball.

_ But what if we didn’t? _

A feeling of loss turned his insides cold. For a moment he stared dumbly, caught in unpleasant stasis. “Yachi-san says hello,” he managed at last. Kageyama straightened and met his eyes, looking tall and neutral as ever. He nodded. 

“Hello back.”

“He says hello,” Shouyou conferred. His eyes were still on Kageyama, who was rubbing his mouth.

“Do I have something on my face?” Kageyama asked after a moment.

_ Typical.  _ Shouyou breathed out in a gust, imagining the fear leaving him. Kageyama was Kageyama. He’d always  _ be _ Kageyama. Was there anything to be scared of?

Not for the time being. Shouyou took another long breath. “A nose,” he said, and his heart warmed at the reluctant pull of Kageyama’s mouth. 

“Stupid,” Kageyama said—affectionately, Shouyou thought. Shouyou fell back against the couch.

“I should go, Yachi-san.”

“Ah, y-yeah… We can video chat again if you’re struggling with classes!”

“Oh, we will.”

She laughed. “Don’t sound so certain.”

“Can’t help it. Bye!”

He ended the call and dropped the phone, not getting up to help Kageyama with the groceries. He watched instead as Kageyama walked through to the kitchen and hefted bags onto the kitchen counter, then when he was momentarily obscured by one of the open screen doors between kitchen and living room Shouyou flipped to the other side of the couch and continued looking, drinking Kageyama in as if he was a precious resource—something that would be gone one day.

“What did Yachi-san say?” Kageyama asked.

“Just talking about school stuff.” Shouyou thought for a moment. “And… movies.”

Kageyama looked at him, hair flopping in time with his movement.  _ Cute _ . “Did she recommend one?”

Shouyou waved his excitement away. Kageyama had been pretty ambivalent about movies and shows for the longest time, but in their last year of high school an old senpai—Shouyou wasn’t sure who, but his money was split between Suga and Ennoshita—had told Kageyama movies might help him in the ‘understanding human behaviour’ department. Shouyou thought it had been joke advice, but Kageyama took it to heart, and so movie nights happened now when they weren’t both too exhausted. Well, when Kageyama wasn’t. Shouyou was happy to fall asleep on the couch and invade Kageyama’s personal space as much as he could under the guise of getting comfy. Any part of him that touched Kageyama always tingled, made his stomach swoop, made his whole body feel part-sunlight. That feeling was the best part of any movie.

“Nothing new,” he said, and Kageyama’s look of disappointment was followed by a nod. “But we could pick something out, maybe. For Sunday.”

Their eyes met. There was a weight between them, a sudden heavy tension that made Shouyou nervous. It happened sometimes, that they’d look at each other and there would be this weird feeling, like Kageyama knew everything, like their perfect understanding worked on a sub-brain level to reveal all Shouyou’s secrets—but then the moment would pass, just like this one did. Kageyama nodded again, and Shouyou turned away. It was only his attraction-addled feelings convincing him there was tension where there was none. That was all; it happened from time to time.

But what if it wasn’t his imagination? What if it was real tension, like in movies, and it turned out they both felt the same way? What if they could be dating?

He closed his eyes and let himself imagine climbing on the counter and grabbing Kageyama as he put away groceries. He’d make him stand still in front of him, then lean forward to breathe him in. After that, with his lungs full of Kageyama-scented air, he’d wrap his arms and legs around Kageyama’s too-tall body and kiss him until they were both flushed and restless, as unsatisfied as Shouyou felt just now. Both of them.

It was nice, imagining stuff like that, and it didn’t hurt anyone. Shouyou did it often. He peeked at Kageyama before turning his gaze inward once more.

He imagined the truly impossible part: Kageyama’s mind going blank with need, because he wanted all this, wanted Shouyou. What next? Kageyama losing control—wild with lust, of course—tearing at his clothes, hands roaming his skin. Shouyou felt the burn of Kageyama’s imagined touch on his real body. He thought of Kageyama unable to get enough—of the contact, of Shouyou’s skin. Their shirts would end up on the kitchen floor, and Shouyou would get to feel Kageyama’s bare chest against his, feel the way it expanded and contracted with each breath, smooth skin sliding against his. It would be impossible to be aware of anything but Kageyama if they were wrapped together that close. He imagined Kageyama hard against him, wanting him as badly as Shouyou wanted him.

He imagined it all being part of their normal, their everyday. A powder keg of passion waiting to be opened by a look, an impulse. Longing swept through him.

He sighed a little painfully and opened his eyes. Kageyama was humming off-key as he put some cartons in the fridge, and he looked clean and neutral and as much like his love-hating self as ever. Utterly off-limits.

Shouyou picked up his phone and texted Ennoshita to ask for movie recommendations.

 

* * *

 

As Shouyou’s crush matured, Kageyama drove him wild in more and more ways, which was unexpected. Shouyou was meant to get used to it all so nothing would affect or surprise him anymore, but it wasn’t to be. 

Of course, Kageyama had  _ always _ driven him wild, but now the wildness had different colours and textures. It wasn’t just an endless desire for tosses mixed with annoyance at the many pitfalls of Kageyama’s personality. There were lots of things Kageyama did that tortured Shouyou now, more every day—but one thing in particular tortured Shouyou to death, or at least made him lie awake at night with his body twisting itself to pieces. It made him put the covers in his mouth and bite down, groaning with frustration.

It made him plot.

He would have to be a lot dumber than he was not to realise Kageyama carried him to bed whenever he fell asleep on the couch. It was a short process of elimination. There weren’t any others who might be doing it, and Shouyou didn’t think he sleepwalked. Plus, there were all the sleep-fuzzy memories of someone carrying him, and Kageyama’s scent just after a bath, plus strong arms and soft grunts of exertion. It would have made him melt in bliss if he wasn’t already melted in sleep. His half-sleeping body’s enjoyment of the ritual was proof in and of itself that it was Kageyama carrying him—but Shouyou was wild with frustration that he’d never experienced it  _ awake _ .

The facts were clear: Kageyama carried him to bed frequently. All Shouyou had to do to get put to bed by Kageyama was fall asleep in the living room—but if he fell asleep there, he didn’t get to experience it. And if he was awake Kageyama wouldn’t do it, not even all the times Shouyou yelled that he was sleepy and wanted to be carried. Kageyama just glared and told him he wasn’t a servant. He looked embarrassed to be asked, even, and eventually Shouyou stopped trying. That was a button not to be pushed.

But what Kageyama didn’t know wouldn’t harm him. If Shouyou pretended to be asleep, he’d get to be carried. He’d remember it, and savour the experience, and revisit it forever in his memories. It was the perfect plan. It had been the perfect plan five nights running—but each night ended with Shouyou actually falling asleep while pretending to be asleep, exhausted from practice.

This night would be the one, though: the night when he finally succeeded.

The soft  _ clip-clip _ of Kageyama managing his nails formed a backdrop to Shouyou’s plotting. A gameshow played on the TV, less likely to send Shouyou to sleep by accident with all its raucous applause and laughter. His eyes weren’t closed yet, but they were heavy-lidded. 

Through slits he watched Kageyama put away the clippers and take out a nailfile. Kageyama was utterly absorbed in the task, even though he did it so often. It was absorbing to watch, as well: the care and ease with which Kageyama maintained his nails was like the work of a professional. He was so self-assured while he did it, his calm, focused face directing the onlooker’s gaze. It felt personal, and there were butterflies in Shouyou’s stomach at getting to see this—getting to see everything. He liked all of Kageyama, but he liked his hands especially, and seeing them like this was just about as good as it got.

_ Who needs porn? _ he asked himself, before realising he was getting sleep-sappy and porn probably had its place, or something.

It was time to continue with the plan, in any case, no matter how beautiful Kageyama’s hands were. He closed his eyes and sighed, moving to get more comfortable the way he always did before falling asleep. Kageyama got up from the couch to do something—he’d already bathed, so Shouyou wasn’t sure what—and Shouyou’s world narrowed to pinching himself awake despite exercise-achey limbs begging for sleep. The couch was comfy, the groove he laid in a perfect fit for his body. He resisted the tug of unconsciousness, keeping the image of Kageyama carrying him in his mind. Even if Kageyama saw it as some annoying task, even if there was no feeling on his side, Shouyou wanted to see what sort of face he made while he carried him. 

Eventually Kageyama returned, and not a moment too soon. Sleep had begun to drag Shouyou under despite his best efforts. Now he was awake again—and awaker still when Kageyama came over to the couch, dropping to a crouch in front of his closed eyes.

A tentative finger brushed at Shouyou’s fringe. Shouyou held his breath—and jumped when Kageyama flicked his forehead. His eyes opened despite himself.

“Oi,” Kageyama said, face up close and personal. “Stop pretending.”

“How’d you know?” Shouyou asked sullenly. His plan had been perfect this time,  _ actually _ perfect. He’d pretended well, hadn’t he? Kageyama had crouched in front of him, had seemed to consider lifting him.

“You think I couldn’t tell? It’s half the time now. You need to start going to bed properly.”

“Lying in bed wakes me up,” Shouyou said.  _ And I like knowing you carried me there. _

Kageyama sighed. Shouyou expected more criticism, but it wasn’t forthcoming. Instead Kageyama’s face went tentative, glancing at him sidelong.

“You want a free lift that badly? That you’d pretend?”

Shouyou squirmed. Was there a chance Kageyama would indulge him? It wouldn’t be the same—he wouldn’t know what Kageyama looked like on all the other nights—but it was something. “Well, yeah!”

“Why?”

Because Shouyou was in love with him, and there was only so much couch wriggling he could do before he met the quota of ways he could accidentally touch Kageyama. Being held… he clamped his lips on a sigh of longing.

“Because it seems like fun.”

Kageyama gazed at him for a moment longer, his hair still damp from the bath, his mouth set as if he wasn’t sure what to do with him. Shouyou didn’t know what to do with himself either—but then Kageyama stood. For a moment Shouyou thought he was about to be ruthlessly abandoned, but Kageyama bent, placed his hands on either side of him—and lifted him onto his shoulders in an uncomfortable carry that crushed his ribs and made it hard to breathe. The room spun as Kageyama straightened.

“This isn’t what I wanted!” Shouyou complained. “Hold me gently!”

“Use your legs.”

“I can’t!”

“Use your legs  _ before _ you beg me to carry you.”

“Let me down, Mean-yama.”

“Now you want down?” There was amusement in Kageyama’s voice now; Shouyou could hear it. Well, at least  _ someone _ was having a good time.

He didn’t insist on being put down. From this distance the floor looked very far away. Or was it just the fact that he was likely to fall face-first if Kageyama dropped him? He swallowed all the choice comments that rose to his lips, opting for silence, and Kageyama moved him to the bedroom.

“Stupid,” Shouyou complained—once he’d been safely dumped on the bed. He bounced a few times, springs creaking; he’d been dropped from some height, without ceremony. 

Kageyama stood over him, completely still. “I’m the one who’s stupid?” 

Shouyou caught his breath at the look in Kageyama’s eyes. The air picked up a charge. They were play-fighting, as familiar as breathing, but they were in his bedroom, and Kageyama looked… something. Serious. Like he might dive onto Shouyou at any moment and wrestle him down, but not in the spirit of playfulness. Not as part of their pretend fight.

He couldn’t be thinking that. Shouyou was imagining desire where there was none—but even the thought of Kageyama being tempted made Shouyou want to proposition him the way he might have a year ago if self-preservation hadn’t prevailed. 

_ Stupid idea _ . 

Was it a stupid idea, when he so wanted Kageyama to be touching him?

“You’re not going to tuck me in?” he asked, voice a little too thick.

“I’m going to hit you,” Kageyama grumbled, but he made no move to do so. His hands did ball into fists and unball, but it wasn’t threatening; Shouyou knew how to spot the difference.

Shouyou sighed, making sure to make it sound as loud and put-upon as he could. “Thanks for the lift, I guess.”

“You’re not welcome.”

Shouyou crawled beneath his blankets, though it wasn’t cold. He looked away. “Thanks for all the other lifts too.”

“You’re…” 

Welcome? Not welcome?

“...an idiot,” Kageyama concluded after a moment. He took a long breath. Shouyou glanced at him: his tall body, his perfectly maintained, clever hands, the posture that conveyed some sort of helplessness. It was all too much and not enough. 

_ Do you think you’ll always love him? _ he heard Yachi ask in his memory. He wasn’t sure. Was it possible to go on feeling this way about a person? Would it fade, or would their connection on the court keep it alive where a normal crush would end? Shouyou didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know if this was what he wanted forever, if the low-risk path where Kageyama would always be his partner was worth these moments where he felt like he might tear apart in frustration. 

He wished he knew, though.

“I’m going to bed,” Kageyama said into the long silence, the declaration sudden and strained. He turned to go.

“Want a lift?” Shouyou asked, not wanting Kageyama to look so odd. Shouyou might be frustrated, but Kageyama didn’t have to be. 

Kageyama didn’t turn, or laugh. “Go to sleep, idiot,” was all he said, and it took Shouyou a long time to obey.

 

* * *

 

The big turning point in Shouyou’s love life came unexpectedly. It couldn’t have been predicted by anyone—or at least, it couldn’t have been predicted by him. He was just going through life as usual. He’d tracked his crush’s various baby birthdays as they passed: three months, six months, a year, fifteen months. Not much changed. Each imaginary birthday he got better at finding ways to get as much as he could out of the arrangement, but other than that it was all the same.

Kageyama let him get away with things. A lot of things—and Shouyou knew exactly how to get the maximum amount from him. He just had to push at the right time, to wheedle and plot and back off when there was no ground to gain. He was a ninja tiptoeing across Kageyama’s nightingale floor, an expert on all things Kageyama. He knew when he could lay his head in Kageyama’s lap and get away with it. He could sense when the buzz of a match would allow him to sit too close to Kageyama on the couch without triggering a pushing match. He knew when to pretend tiredness so Kageyama would prop him up while they were standing. In short, he knew how to eke out every last little bit of closeness from their relationship, and most of the time he didn’t push it any further than he was allowed to.

Asking Kageyama to sleep with him when the power went out was a push too far, the start of something new—but he didn’t realise it at the time. 

It was just what he did: seeing what he could get away with.

“My bed or yours?” he heard himself ask, too late to backpedal—too late to wonder if it was a good idea.

Kageyama’s answer took a while; Shouyou could see his throat working. Was a rebuke coming? He braced.

“Yours,” Kageyama said finally, and Shouyou’s underbelly tightened with a ticklish kind of pleasure. 

Kageyama in his bed. It was something he’d fantasised about often—but then, he’d fantasised about sneaking into Kageyama’s bed just as much. He couldn’t believe it was actually going to happen, though, and he was almost glad when he got some time to himself to prepare as Kageyama got ready for bed. It wasn’t long, though, before Shouyou was diving under the blankets and settling in to wait.

This wasn’t about warmth, or survival. Sure it was cold, but they wouldn’t freeze to death even if they didn’t sleep in the same bed. This was an opportunity: a little taste of what life with a different version of Kageyama might be like. He was allowed to taste it. It wouldn’t kill either of them to sleep in the same bed for a night. 

It felt like his heart might burst when the door of his room opened, though, when Kageyama blew out his candle and slid in beside him. Shouyou’s teeth were chattering, but his insides were hot and painful and Kageyama was letting him near, clucking over his frozen hands. Kageyama’s clean scent rose up like a cloud around him, and Shouyou sighed in relief.

_ Heaven. _

After a moment he knew Kageyama would notice soon that they were lying the way TV couples did after sex and he’d push him off. Instead of holding onto a doomed pose, Shouyou poured his energy into getting Kageyama to spoon him, which had the benefit of looking like two people trying to get warm. He modulated his voice to the perfect mix of demanding and casual to keep Kageyama from thinking twice about getting that close to him or realising it was odd.

It worked. Kageyama’s long body moulded to his, perfectly proportioned to enfold him, and Shouyou shuddered with the pleasure of it. He remembered Kageyama’s body exposed, all that skin, the solid strength of his core, his chest, his arms. It made Shouyou want to rut into something, knowing that perfect body was behind him, but of course he couldn’t right now.

They were spooning. Kageyama would definitely notice any furtive thrusting on Shouyou’s part.

It took a long time to calm, but eventually he managed it. He imagined them different—imagined them lovers, used to each other. This night was like lots of others, with them in the same bed, their bodies slotted together. The fantasy felt too real and too unreal at the same time. Want was a lump in his throat, and he wondered if maybe he ought to ask Kageyama for something—some arrangement where he would get to relieve these feelings. How disgusting would Kageyama think he was for suggesting it? If Shouyou pretended it was all for physical relief, somehow related to volleyball, would Kageyama accept it?

“You’re disgusting,” he imagined Kageyama telling him. It was easy to imagine: Kageyama’s face shuttering, his mouth twisting. It was how he looked during romantic scenes.

_ Damn it. _ Shouyou curtailed his pain-pleasure thoughts, focusing on the real world instead. He wondered, just as he often did, how Kageyama saw the world. How he felt about everything. He was always so  _ neutral _ , even about things he seemed to enjoy. Was volleyball really the only thing he cared deeply about? A week ago, Shouyou’s mother had asked if Shouyou was happy at university. He was—but the question made him wonder what Kageyama’s standards for happiness were. Volleyball? Milk? It wasn’t too little—Shouyou knew volleyball could sustain a soul for years—but something about those things being Kageyama’s  _ only _ joys seemed empty.

More than that it seemed… lonely.

“Kageyama?” Shouyou asked.

Kageyama twitched behind him. “What?”

“Are you happy?”

“ _ What? _ ”

Of course he wouldn’t get it. Shouyou sighed, tried to explain. “Just—are you happy?”

“Why?”

“My mother asked me if I was happy at university. It made me think. Are you happy?”

“Do I seem unhappy?”

“You just seem like yourself,” Shouyou said. “I’m not sure I’d be able to tell if you were happy or unhappy. In a life way, I mean, not day to day. I can tell day to day.” 

There was a long silence. Too long, Shouyou thought. Any happy person would have answered by now, and if Kageyama was unhappy he should have said so and allowed Shouyou to help—

“I’m happy,” Kageyama said, interrupting this flurry of thought. Just that:  _ I’m happy. _ Shouyou wasn’t sure he believed it.

“Are you?” Kageyama asked.

“Me? Yeah, of course.” He thought of the arrangement again, wondered how he’d phrase it.  _ You’re my type, Kageyama, and I know you think love is gross, but you talked about urges once so what do you think of maybe... _

He sighed and shifted to get more comfortable. Kageyama was a hard wall behind him, delicious and still out of reach. Maybe one day he wouldn’t be, if he phrased it right.

_ Dream on. _

It wasn’t something to decide on late at night while drugged by the sensation of Kageyama against him, in any case. He’d think about it more in the morning.

“Night, Kageyama,” he said.

“Night.”

He let his body relax. He was sad, a little. Being held by Kageyama ought to feel good, and it  _ did _ feel good, but it made him want more so much that it almost wasn’t worth it. He wanted to grab Kageyama’s arm circling him and fold it tight around. He wanted to stretch up an arm and grab the back of Kageyama’s head, turn and kiss him while they were slotted together. He wanted Kageyama to respond, to want to respond.

His body trembled on the edge of something, tortured by Kageyama’s warm closeness, but he kept his eyes closed and tried to store up the sensation of Kageyama at his back, breath against the back of his head. Eventually the achey need would go away and the memory would stay; he had to make sure to remember it.

It wasn’t the most restful time of Shouyou’s life, but he was on the edge of sleep by the time Kageyama moved again. He didn’t move much. His arm tightened a little, and his posture shifted to bring his head closer. After a moment something brushed the back of Shouyou’s neck.

Kageyama’s mouth—in a gentle but utterly distinct kiss.

The blood in Shouyou’s veins seemed to freeze. A kiss. It had been a kiss. Not accidental, not just lips brushing by from shifting. Kageyama had kissed him on purpose—like a good night kiss, like it was normal, while he thought Shouyou was asleep. The ice in Shouyou’s blood melted, then steamed fire-hot. 

_ What the hell? _

He kept himself still by force of will, steadying his breathing. There was no repeat of the gesture and no explanation. Kageyama had to think he was sleeping soundly still, or he wouldn’t have done it, and Shouyou tried his hardest to seem like he was.

_ Kageyama kissed me _ .

Shouyou lay still, heart racing, and tried to figure out what that meant.

 

* * *

 

When he woke up Kageyama was gone, even though it was early. It sucked. He’d wanted to see Kageyama’s sleeping face next to him in bed first thing. He wanted to goggle at it and think:  _ that blank-faced, sleeping guy kissed me. _

And then he wanted to kiss him back, except that might not be welcome. He’d thought about it last night for all the long minutes until he fell asleep. Kageyama hadn’t kissed him while he was awake, and it wasn’t a  _ take me I’m yours  _ kind of kiss. While it didn’t fit any normal person’s standards of a platonic kiss—who kissed people on the backs of their necks?—it was possible that it had been just that. The kiss had been dry and undemanding.

It was weird to kiss your friend while they were sleeping, but it was just this side of possible it had been a small gesture of affection to Kageyama, like when Shouyou needed to jump on him after a match. Sometimes feelings were overwhelming and you had to act; Shouyou knew all about that.

But he hoped… god, he hoped—

His alarm went. It made him yell, he was so far from reality when its chime rang. He turned it off in short order, shooting up in bed and breathing hard.

_ Practice, practice… _ With mechanical ease he got ready to go. Exercise clothes under tracksuit to save time, hands through hair, a cursory face wash… and then his heart nearly stopped when he sped into the kitchen and saw Kageyama. They both froze for a moment, looking at each other.

_ He kissed me on the back of my neck last night. _

Kageyama’s expression shuttered, his posture stiff. 

_ What? _

“You left early! What if I’d frozen?” Shouyou asked. Reprimands were neutral territory; they’d settle whatever hung in the air between them.

“The heating came back on.” There was no give in that tone of voice, and Kageyama turned away right after. He took his breakfast to the table and sat, not facing Shouyou—literally turning his back.

“What the hell, Kageyama. Are you angry? Did I kick you?”

“Yes,” Kageyama said.

“Oh. Sorry, then. I’m not used to sleeping next to people.”

Kageyama was silent. He was often silent at breakfast, but today the silence was forbidding. Why? 

“At least the electricity is back!” Shouyou said, hoping Kageyama would brighten in a bit. If he intended to, there was no sign of it. How hard had the kick been?

Oh well—Shouyou had tried. They’d just have to make it through until Kageyama got over whatever was biting him. 

Shouyou plunked down opposite Kageyama with his own breakfast; Kageyama looked stalwartly away, expression grim. Like Shouyou wasn’t even there. Normal mornings, Kageyama could at the very least summon a smile, even when he was moody. Shouyou relied on it sometimes, to give him energy. But today...

Another glance at Kageyama was just as forbidding, if not more so. Shouyou tucked into his breakfast and fought the urge to kick the guy he’d so wanted to kiss just minutes ago. Food went down, but no likely explanations for Kageyama’s sudden grouchiness came up. Shouyou frowned at his breakfast. 

Kageyama would just have to get over it, and that was that.

 

* * *

 

The mood didn’t lift. Not that day, or the next, or the next, even though they won a practice match they weren’t expected to. Kageyama was sullen in a way he never had been before, and Shouyou was reminded of the time in high school when they’d fought over their quick—when Kageyama had wanted to keep things the same and Shouyou had insisted on changing. All the usual warmth and friction between them dropped away, leaving cold silence Kageyama seemed to savour. 

It felt like he was punishing Shouyou for making him sleep in his bed, but why would he do that? He hadn’t been upset at the time. Did he think it was weird once they woke up? Had Shouyou mumbled something terrible in his sleep?

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Shouyou said in the cafeteria the day after the match. There were people around; Kageyama glanced at him.

“No.”

_ Ah _ . It was the first time Kageyama hadn’t called him stupid or said ‘nothing’. After dinner they walked home together, their breath misting the air in tandem the way it always did, unaware that things between them had fallen out of sync. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Shouyou said, his hands thrust in his pockets, his head tucked into his scarf, sports bag bouncing on his hip. Kageyama’s posture was exactly the same, yet somehow it looked more closed off.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Kageyama said. They were backsliding.

Shouyou glanced at him. If he ran the rest of the way to their apartment, would Kageyama try to beat him there, running to catch up? Normally the answer was an easy  _ of course _ , but today it didn’t feel like he would. Shouyou didn’t want to attempt it and find out he was right. 

He raised his eyes to dark sky cut through with yellow streetlights. What could he do or say to draw Kageyama out? It normally only took him a day when Kageyama was like this. It was  _ three _ now, and Kageyama hadn’t budged. 

“Did I do something bad?” Shouyou asked.

“No.”

“So you’re not punishing me?”

Kageyama sucked in a breath, then scowled at the pavement. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I did something bad according to you.”

“Well, you didn’t. Just leave it, Shouyou. I’m tired.”

How was Shouyou meant to leave it? He didn’t like the way Kageyama said his given name there, now—like his usual standard  _ Hinata _ s were a pretense he was too tired to keep up. Why did Kageyama have to call him Shouyou  _ now _ , when he was angry?

Uncharacteristically, though, Shouyou did drop it for the time being—even though it felt like the reverberation in his chest back when he used to mess up receives a lot, the way the ball could hit him full in the torso and mess up his breathing. 

He wasn’t sure how to approach this when Kageyama wouldn’t give him any hints. Could he just wrestle him down and yell at him until he admitted what was wrong? If it continued much longer, he would. He’d just have to run the risk of pushing Kageyama further away while he was at it.

The thought scared him more than he wanted to admit.

That night, in accordance with their non-fight, Kageyama went to bed early without saying he was going. Shouyou sulked in the well-lit living room. Last night he’d slept all night on the couch and thought it was some sign from Kageyama that he was done caring for him, but it was possible Kageyama hadn’t even known he was out here; it was possible Kageyama had been asleep. Whether it was intentional or unintentional, it stung equally bad. Ever since Shouyou’s couch sleeps became a theme Shouyou had gotten used to waking up in his bed after. Kageyama never neglected his neck-crick prevention duties once they were a regular occurrence.

Times changed, though.

Presently Shouyou stared at Kageyama’s laptop left out on the kotatsu. It might hold information—information he didn’t have and Kageyama wouldn’t tell him. After a moment of guilty option-weighing he picked it up, curling around it on the couch.

He’d just look for something that might explain it, and then figure out how to support Kageyama through whatever problem he had. Sometimes people needed others to insert themselves into their business, and Kageyama was one of them. 

The more Shouyou thought about it, the more he was sure some terrible outside-world thing had set Kageyama off, and he just wasn’t confiding in him. It made the most sense.

He opened Kageyama’s mail programme, looking for mails from Kageyama’s family, or else from the university or other teams. What if something had happened to a family member? Or if some place had tried to recruit Kageyama? Or if his sports scholarship was cancelled? A glance at incoming mail didn’t show up anything red flag-ey—but Shouyou’s eyes did catch on a mail from the website they’d used to find this apartment, listing an unknown address somewhere else near campus.

There was a long, long beat of silence. Shouyou’s breath stopped in his throat, eyes skimming the email preview. At first he thought there was some mistake, that he was reading what little of the mail he could see wrong. He went over it again and again, the truth sinking in slowly. Eventually it was impossible to keep hold of his denial.

Kageyama had inquired about another apartment.

Shouyou nearly threw the laptop down, as if the plastic burned him. It  _ did _ burn him. Kageyama was looking at other places to live. 

_ What the hell? _

For a moment Shouyou sat fuming, wanting to storm to Kageyama’s bedroom and hit him awake, demanding answers. He wanted to punch and wrestle and kick until Kageyama fought back, until he yelled and coughed up whatever was wrong. The impulse was hard to suppress, but Shouyou waited until he had it under control before he unfolded, holding up his hands. They were shaking.  _ All  _ of him was shaking.

It was his own fault for looking at someone else’s emails without permission, maybe, but what was he meant to do when Kageyama wouldn’t tell him anything?

He stood. His heart beat a sick rhythm in his chest, one that did nothing to curb sudden, rising nausea. He’d had everything planned out. He’d made his big sacrifice, kept his big secret so he and Kageyama could stay together. So why was everything still falling apart? Why was Kageyama still trying to leave?

Before he’d even made the decision to move he was standing outside Kageyama’s closed bedroom door. There was no sound from inside, but Kageyama didn’t snore unless he had a cold. He could be awake or asleep; no way to tell.

Shouyou opened the door as quietly as he could.

The tiny room beyond was dark, lit only by the spillover light from the hallway. When he stepped aside he could see Kageyama lying with his back to the door, closed off even while resting. Shouyou rounded the bed, peering into the dark. Was Kageyama sleeping? His eyes were shut, certainly. He looked exhausted, had looked exhausted for several days now. Borderline lifeless. Shouyou dropped to sit on his haunches in front of Kageyama’s face, getting a closer look. He was facing the hallway light now, making it hard to see, but his mind filled in the blanks from flat panes of grey, Kageyama’s face a mosaic of sight and memory.

Kageyama was asleep.

The anger Shouyou had felt at seeing the housing email drained out. Maybe Kageyama had inquired on someone else’s behalf—and maybe not. Maybe he really wanted to leave. Whatever it was that had spooked him, Shouyou wasn’t willing to let it stick. He wasn’t willing to let go.

_ He kissed me _ , he thought. Kageyama had kissed him while he thought he was sleeping. Now it was Kageyama who was asleep.

Shouyou leaned in. Why should Kageyama get to kiss him while he slept, and not the other way around? If Shouyou kissed back, it would only be fair. He could do it right now; all he had to do was move in a little more. He shifted to a kneeling position, gripping the side of the bed.

_ We promised _ , he thought, caught between renewed anger and panic.  _ We’re meant to belong together, you can’t just leave— _

He pressed his lips to Kageyama’s, trying to make the kiss soft even though his insides felt hard and prickly. He’d spend his life following Kageyama if he had to; they’d promised back when they were fifteen. There was no time limit on promises like that. Could Kageyama have forgotten?

A moment passed, and then another, his lips to Kageyama’s. He’d wanted the revenge kiss with every shivery, newly insecure part of himself—but to his surprise, Kageyama’s quiet mouth didn’t feel like anything much. It was just a still surface; there were no choirs of angels, and kissing it didn’t feel like it got out even a tenth of the frustration Shouyou was feeling.

He drew back. Disappointment swelled in his throat, cloying and heavy, like the moment before crying—and then Kageyama’s hand shot out, reached up, caught at the back of his head. He gasped as Kageyama pulled him in, and this time when their mouths touched it was another world.

_ I’m kissing Kageyama. No,  _ he’s _ kissing  _ me _. _

The hand at the back of Shouyou’s head made all the difference. There was no recourse; he couldn’t pull away. He didn’t want to pull away. He didn’t know how to kiss an awake person, not like people did on TV, but his mouth was open and mashed to Kageyama’s, and when Kageyama’s opened he felt a flicker of tongue he had no idea what to do with but liked. It didn’t seem like Kageyama knew what to do either, and after a moment they drew apart, Kageyama’s grip letting up. Shouyou was gasping for breath, his body so light it felt like he might float.

He stared into Kageyama’s shadowed face. His own face was revealed by the light from the hall, and in the long silence Kageyama got plenty of time to study it. What was he thinking?

_ Never mind what he’s thinking _ , Shouyou thought numbly at himself.  _ What are  _ you _ thinking? _

His head felt empty. Stars spun in his brain.  _ Think _ , he thought at himself, wanting to understand what had just happened. Kageyama had pulled him in for a kiss. Not like the last one—not a maybe-platonic good night kiss. This had meant something different. It had to. 

Platonic kisses didn’t have tongue. Shouyou’s insides went gooey at the thought that he’d felt Kageyama’s tongue against his mouth. Not quite a proper, adult kiss, but it had tiptoed towards one. It was more than Shouyou had ever done or felt with anyone.

“Nothing?” Kageyama said.

Shouyou blinked. It took a long moment to make out what Kageyama had said, his mind was so cloudy. “Nothing what?”

“Nothing to say. I don’t get to hear what experiment that was? I’m disappointed.” Kageyama’s voice was low and almost menacing. He was back to the Kageyama he’d been all week—the weirdly grim one, who looked at Shouyou like Shouyou was stepping on his little toe just by existing. Except there was more of an edge. It seemed as if all those looks really did stem from resentment, now, in the light of these bitten-off words.

So he  _ was _ angry. He might have said.

Shouyou glared. “I thought you might transform back from being a frog. No luck.”

Had Kageyama been messing with him? He hadn’t, right? But maybe he thought Shouyou was messing with him.

That would explain why he looked ready to strangle him.

Shouyou stood, but only to set a knee up next to Kageyama on the bed. Kageyama sat up, eyes widening. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t for Shouyou to come closer. Shouyou knelt, looking at Kageyama’s face now it was no longer turned from the light.

Vulnerability looked back at him, though someone who didn’t know Kageyama wouldn’t see it. There was a wildness about his eyes, his mouth slightly open. Embarrassed anger could burst forth in a moment, but it hadn’t yet. 

Shouyou gripped the covers on either side of Kageyama’s hips and moved in.

He kissed him. Not while Kageyama was asleep. Not because Kageyama pulled him in. He just leaned in and did it, and hoped he wouldn’t be thrown off. 

There was a strangled noise—but Kageyama didn’t attack. His mouth under Shouyou’s was unresisting, and after a moment it opened for him. Lack of experience didn’t outstrip imagination; Shouyou kissed Kageyama like he’d imagined a thousand times, confused by the real sensation but not undone by it. He moved his mouth against Kageyama’s with care, with relish. Teeth were weird in a real kiss, and it felt strange to touch his tongue to Kageyama’s lip, but all the surprises were good surprises. The way Kageyama yielded to him when he stuck his tongue in was the best surprise of all, like he’d been waiting for this. Waiting to give in.

_ Wanting _ to give in.

The giving in part didn’t last too long. After a moment Kageyama’s hands came up, forcefully grabbing Shouyou’s head, fingers tugging at hair—but not tugging away. Kageyama’s mouth opened hungrily, his tongue pushing against Shouyou’s like they were fighting instead of kissing. Shouyou choked on the gesture and tried to give as good as he got, knowing they were doing it wrong but not caring. His face was slotted to Kageyama’s, and if they were kissing badly they were at least kissing, with Kageyama’s hands in his hair and the shudders of Kageyama’s breath so close they felt like his own. 

Their tongues slid together, the taste of Kageyama’s mouth now known to him, and his heart beat with triumph. There was nothing Shouyou could do to un-know this taste, this feeling. Nothing he could do to turn back to before kissing ever came up. Kageyama was pulling him in, seeming desperate to gather all of him close after days of cold silence.

_ Yes, _ Shouyou thought, blood hot and pounding.  _ Yes. _

Kageyama had bathed before bed, and he smelled exactly as he always did after: clean and delicious, tantalising, and for once Shouyou didn’t have to keep his distance. Kageyama’s hands forbade him from keeping any distance at all. All that muscle—all of his clever, skilled body—was less than a breath away, and Shouyou grabbed fistfuls of shirt in order to keep him there.

Forever, if he could. Hadn’t they promised?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much shorter chapter today... but hopefully a sweeter one! (Depending on what you like, I guess. SORRY TO ANYONE WHO WAS WANTING UNREPENTANT ANGST, I cannot deliver on that with kagehina as my vehicle.)
> 
> Thank you to all commenters/encouragers. You are the BEST! I hope you'll all enjoy :D

Normally it took Tobio a while to wake up. Sleep dragged at him, lingered in his muscles, refused to budge—but when he woke to Hinata’s mouth on his, instinct took over. He reached out and grabbed the back of Hinata’s head, and then Hinata was kissing him properly. He tasted him when he opened his mouth, just slightly salty, and for a moment everything inside of him seemed to open up, all the cramped little spaces stretching out and becoming painless. It was a long moment—long enough for the rest of his brain to wake up—and then he let go, staring.

Hinata looked back at him, his face lit by the glow of the hall light. There were no clues there that Tobio could see, just blankness. All the confusion of the past few days rushed back in. Hinata knew about him, knew how he felt, and he’d… kissed him while he was sleeping. As some imagined revenge? A joke? To see what would happen?

Out of pity? Fear turned him cold.

“Nothing?” he forced out. The blank, wide-eyed expression shifted, but only a little.

“Nothing what?”

“Nothing to say? I don’t get to hear what experiment that was?” To be fair, Tobio had pulled him in when he retreated—but Hinata had been the one to kiss him first. Right? He hadn’t imagined that, even if it was just some weird form of one-upmanship on Hinata’s part.

_Why didn’t he just push me away?_

Hinata didn’t respond for a moment, though some sort of understanding dawned in his eyes. Annoyance coloured his voice when he did reply.

“I thought you might transform back from being a frog. No luck.”

They gazed at each other. Tobio wasn’t sure what to think or feel, but after an interminable silence Hinata crept up onto the bed, planting his knees firmly so Tobio was compelled to sit up and face him, breath coming fast. He braced for an attack.

Hinata loomed over him, eyes full of the same blank certainty that unnerved opponents. Being looked at that way set every nerve in Tobio’s body on fire. It was the way Hinata looked when he was sure beyond reason, when he couldn’t be stopped, and he was looking right at him. This wasn’t some halfhearted joke.

Tobio knew what it wasn’t—but he didn’t know what it _was_.

It was the last thing he thought before Hinata planted his hands on the bed and surged forward to kiss him. There was no way to prepare himself. Before he’d processed what was about to happen Hinata’s mouth was on his again, opening, his tongue pushing against his lips. He shuddered under the force of it, weak with want. _Yes_ , he thought, at the same time as some last remnant of self-preservation told him to be careful.

Had he ever been careful with Hinata? Had he ever needed to be?

For a moment he melted into the kiss, giving into the bruising heat of Hinata’s mouth, so much like all his fantasies—and then it caught on that this was reality.

This was happening.

He wouldn’t let Hinata outpace him. He rose up, grabbing at Hinata’s hair. It was soft in his hands, soft as it had ever been, and the sensation of that coupled with Hinata pushing into him filled up all the same empty spaces from before, made him forget the sick confusion of the past days. It occurred to him that he didn’t know everything, that he couldn’t know everything, not even when it came to Hinata. It was with relief he pushed back into Hinata’s mouth, hot and clumsy, making Hinata rock back before attempting the same. Hinata’s hands fisted in his shirt.

Tobio wanted to laugh, somehow, even though it was a stupid response to Hinata kissing him. Laugh or maybe cry. Maybe both. He settled for continuing the kiss, letting go of Hinata’s hair only to slide his hands along his jaw, tipping his head for a better angle. Both of them kept choking on each other, too aggressive, too unused to kissing, but it didn’t matter.

This was real. It was real, and it was happening. He didn’t understand why it was happening, but for the moment he didn’t care.

Eventually lack of oxygen and the continual grazing of teeth and lips forced them to stop, at least for a little while. They breathed hard, chests rising and falling, slightly out of sync and staring but not—

Not unhappy. Not angry. Hinata reached past him after a moment, turning on the bedside lamp and flooding the room with light. Tobio felt hopelessly exposed, especially with the intense way Hinata looked at him, but somehow it didn’t matter as much.

“Kageyama,” Hinata said.

“Yeah?”

“How do you feel about love?”

Could his heart race faster? It tried, cornered now. “What?”

“Do you think it’s disgusting?”

What the hell was he asking about? “No.”

“You said so once.”

Tobio shook his head, trying to clear it. This sudden departure from sense was harder to take after the kiss had stolen his thoughts away. “I don’t remember.”

“Did you think that kiss was disgusting?”

“No.” Others might. He had the distinct impression there was more spit than there needed to be, but he couldn’t convince himself to care; he’d gotten to taste Hinata on his tongue.

His stomach squirmed with pain-pleasure at the thought. _Hinata’s mouth… Hinata’s._ He’d never thought he’d feel it on him outside of his fantasies, never in a million years. It was made for loud laughter, for scarfing down food, for challenging him when his energy flagged—not for kissing. It looked perfect for kissing— _was_ perfect for kissing, he knew now—but it was meant to be unavailable for it. Something to think longingly about.

Tobio had felt his _tongue._ Had had his own tongue inside of it. _What the hell?_

“Do you think it’s disgusting when people like you?” Hinata asked now.

“What the hell, Hinata? What are you asking? Of course I don’t.”

“If I liked you?”

Tobio could barely breathe around the sudden block in his throat. Was that what the kiss meant? That Hinata liked him now, or at least was thinking about liking him? It was unclear what Hinata felt, how much of this was an experiment. There were too many questions Tobio didn’t know how to ask; he didn’t know what was going on in Hinata’s brain.

Hinata looked at him, eyes skirting around his face, taking everything in. There were goosebumps on his arms, Tobio saw; it was cold in the house. He wanted to run his bed-warm hands over Hinata’s skin until he thawed.

 _If I liked you?_ echoed in his head, Hinata’s bright voice caught between his ears.

“Well? Would it be disgusting?”

Tobio swallowed hard. “If you liked me?”

“Yeah.”

Fear and warmth crashed like waves behind his solar plexus. He didn’t jump to any conclusions; he just took deep, slow breaths. “No. It wouldn’t be.”

“Would it be good?”

Terror—terror and hope. Of course the two went together. “Yes.”

The grin that spread across Hinata’s face was so bright it hurt to look at—but Tobio was glad the bedside light was on. He wouldn’t want to miss it. All Hinata’s impish good looks twinkled, forcing an echoed sunrise in his chest. They’d been friends too long for Tobio to miss the giddy relief in that bright smile. Whatever prompted that kiss wasn’t just a fancy; perhaps it wasn’t even new.

 _He feels it too_.

_Maybe._

_Maybe he feels it too._

“Well, good. Because I do.”

The pleasure was so sharp it closed in on pain—and made Tobio feel vulnerable as hell—so he grabbed the back of Hinata’s head and pulled him in, planting Hinata’s face against his shoulder. He let out a shuddering breath, eyes closed. There: now Hinata couldn’t see whatever weird face he was making.

“No fair, Kageyama,” Hinata said, voice muffled. Then he took a deep breath through his nose and sighed with pleasure; it felt strange through Tobio’s shirt, the air moving in and out.

“No fair what?” Tobio asked. His voice came out uneven. Hinata’s face mashed into his shirt was making his stomach fill with butterflies.

“I can’t see what face you’re making.”

“You wouldn’t want to,” Tobio said. He didn’t. He opened his eyes and touched his face with his free hand, glad the mirror in his room wasn’t turned this way. Then he set the hand to better tasks, joining his other in Hinata’s hair. He touched it carefully, noting the texture, running a fingertip along the different lengths to where it started to curl. His heart felt very full.

“And you haven’t said anything back,” Hinata complained into his chest.

Fair was fair. Tobio’s throat tried to stopper, but he forced the words through. “Would it be good if I liked you?”

Hinata sighed against him. He shifted to a more comfortable position, all the while keeping his face mashed to Tobio’s chest, and wrapped his arms around Tobio’s waist. “Not good. The _best_.”

Tobio’s breath whooshed out. He leaned back against the wall and let his hands drop, opting for a loose hug that felt less natural than all their back-pounding, on-court embraces. Hinata was really here, on his bed, in his arms, saying it would be good if he liked him. No matter how Tobio shivered, it wouldn’t let out all the energy, all the relief, all the shock. He could play five full-set matches on the fire in his chest alone.

“Then good.”

“Good?”

His voice tried to quit on him several times before he managed a simple: “Yeah.”

“Because you do too? You like me back?”

Why did Hinata have to spell it out? Wasn’t it obvious, beyond obvious? Tobio stared at Hinata’s socked heel to steady himself, faint with the sensation of Hinata in his arms. “Yeah. Of course.”

Hinata squirmed, arms tightening around him, nose poking into his chest.

It made no sense, this development. If Hinata liked him, why hadn’t he reacted to the ill-advised kiss that night? He’d felt it. Tobio knew he’d felt it. He wanted to ask. He wanted to know everything. Not that it mattered—it couldn’t matter, not in the face of this—but he wondered what all he’d been wrong about, what assumptions had been faulty.

He wanted to know what to expect.

“Kageyama,” Hinata said—a sigh, not a request for attention.

“Yes?” Tobio said anyway, because his insides felt too shivery to keep quiet.

Hinata made a noise and squished his face into his shirt some more, breathing deeply. It tickled slightly, but Tobio didn’t push him away. He hoped his forbearance would be rewarded one day when the tables were turned—that he could inhale Hinata’s scent as much as he wanted sometime and not be called a pervert.

It still seemed impossible that Hinata would let him, but maybe he needed time to get used to the idea.

“You like me?” Tobio asked, looking at the ceiling. His heart thumped madly.

“Yeah. I said so, didn’t I?”

Tobio swallowed down all the emotion trying to well up. “How long?” _And why? And what changed?_

What if Hinata had convinced himself he liked him in a misguided attempt to keep him close when he started acting distant? What if it wasn’t real liking at all? Habit turned all certainty to doubt.

Hinata took a last breath—like he was about to dive into water—and drew back. He sat up, folded his legs under him, and thought.

He thought very seriously. Tobio saw his mouth press, his eyes narrow.

“Not sure exactly,” Hinata said at last. “Definitely a year.”

 _Long_. Not a few days. That was a relief—until Tobio caught Hinata casting furtive glances, his colour rising.

“What?” Tobio asked, stung. Was Hinata lying?

“Longer, probably,” Hinata mumbled. “Probably since I went to Okinawa. Definitely. Since then.”

 _Why didn’t you say?_ Tobio wanted to ask, but he hadn’t said either. He’d been scared, or else unwilling to risk, or… something. He just knew that there was no way Hinata could feel what he did. Hinata had too many friends, too many options. Hinata had had a girlfriend. _Hinata would have said._

Suddenly Hinata seemed to draw himself up, blush-patchy face sobering. His stare filled with accusations, sharp despite the glow of his cheeks.

“Why did you say love was disgusting?” he asked.

Tobio blinked. _When?_ “I didn’t say that.”

“You did! You definitely did! And you look away during lovey dovey scenes, and you snarl at couples holding hands in public—”

“I don’t do that,” Tobio said quickly, mostly to forestall him, but he didn’t know what to say next. _Snarl?_ He had no memory of any of these things, though perhaps, if he thought about it… It was awkward to see love. It was too much, a glimpse into someone else’s life he hadn’t asked for, annoying to be faced with day after day unwillingly. And it wasn’t like he was immune to imagining it all with Hinata: holding hands, kissing like couples in movies. It hurt.

Maybe he did flinch at romance a bit—but he’d had reason to. Up until now.

“Don’t say you don’t, because you do,” Hinata said fiercely, unhappily. “And you said that, you really did. So why?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. Hinata still looked like he might throttle him, unsatisfied with his answer. “What, do you need to hit me?”

Hinata rose up, kneeling stance widening as he shook his fists. “I will, you know! You said it, I remember it _so well_!”

Tobio waited. He didn’t mind if Hinata punched him. Hinata liked him.

Perhaps if Hinata tried to punch him, he would have an excuse to wrestle him down.

“ _I don’t want what you want_ ,” Hinata said, with the weight of a quotation. What it was referring to was a mystery, and Hinata must have seen the blankness in Tobio’s face. The fight seemed to go out of him; he sat back down.

“You did say that, you know,” Hinata said in a voice of defeat.

“Sorry,” Tobio said, meaning it. A conversation was beginning to pull at his memories—but only a little. He let the memory be.

“Next question,” Hinata said, moving on, and Tobio braced to give himself away. He’d asked Hinata how long he’d liked him, and fair was fair. Three years was a long time to keep a secret—he’d look so pathetic for feeling it that long by comparison—but Hinata didn’t ask how long he’d felt this way.

“Why have you been Sulky-yama?” he asked instead.

Tobio blinked. Hinata was peering at him, so he schooled his expression to neutrality. He hadn’t been sulking. He’d been in pain.

He’d felt betrayed, and he still didn’t know what had happened that night in Hinata’s bed. It took him a long time to answer, to gather up the words to describe it.

“I thought you knew about me, and you were ignoring it,” Tobio said shortly. It sounded stupid when he said it out loud.

“Huh?”

Tobio looked away. “You were awake that night. I didn’t mean to kiss you, but you pretended to be asleep after. It made me wonder what else you pretended not to notice. I thought you knew how I felt and hadn’t said anything to—to protect our partnership, or something.”

“You didn’t mean to kiss me?”

Of all the things to be surprised by… “It was automatic.”

“Kissing me is automatic?” Hinata’s mouth pulled sideways in a lopsided grin. “Really?”

Tobio didn’t want to tell him about all the good night kisses. His heart turned over at the delight obvious in Hinata’s face. “Something like that.”

“And me pretending I didn’t notice was worth getting all upset over?”

Tobio shook his head. He didn’t think he could explain to Hinata why it had hit so hard. It was like finding out Hinata was a different person than he’d thought he was for the past five years. Or not even that—that their partnership was different from what he’d thought. Weaker, more one-sided. That Hinata wasn’t honest with him, didn’t rely on him, saw his feelings as a nuisance. It had made it hard to breathe; the claustrophobia had threatened to choke him.

Hinata was still looking at him funny; he tried to explain.

“If you found out I didn’t particularly like tossing to you, that I just pretended you were my favourite so you’d be a better player, it might feel the same. Maybe.”

Hinata blew out his breath. “I don’t want to imagine it. You’ll give me nightmares.”

“Stupid. Obviously it’s not true.”

“I know.” Hinata looked down at his hands. “I didn’t know what it meant, you kissing me. If you hadn’t gone all impossible the next day I would have asked you about it. I just didn’t know what to do right then. I was scared I’d take it for something it wasn’t, and then you’d hate me.”

Tobio imagined Hinata turning in his arms that night, pressing lips to his as he just had. It would have saved a lot of pain and soul-searching.

“Maybe you were just feeling affectionate in some friend way,” Hinata continued. “Since you hate love stuff. Or I thought you did.”

 _Hate love stuff._ The conversation Hinata kept referring to was rising in Tobio’s mind, resolving itself—and then it tugged in a painful direction. Midori. It had been while Hinata was dating Midori, while Tobio was at his angriest. All Tobio remembered was anger and betrayal, Hinata asking him about these things like nails being driven through him. He was glad he didn’t remember the specifics of the conversation; he’d been so jealous he could barely see straight, much less reason.

He might have said anything at the time to get Hinata to stop talking. No wonder Hinata had gotten the wrong impression.

“But you like me,” Hinata said. His eyes rose to meet Tobio’s, grin reforming.

Tobio looked away, cheeks prickling.

“What, you’re not gonna say it some more? C’mon, say you do. I want to hear it again.”

Trust Hinata to be obnoxious about this. His smile tugged at Tobio’s heart—which was light. So light.

“I definitely don’t,” Tobio said. After a moment of hesitation, he looked back and touched Hinata’s cheek. It all seemed so impossible, but Hinata was glowing at him within an arm’s reach, his skin under his fingertips. It was real, all real.

How was it possible?

Hinata reached out suddenly, tugging at the bottom of Tobio’s shirt.

“Don’t you normally sleep shirtless at home?” he asked.

Weird question. “Not when it’s cold.”

Hinata’s face went funny. “Oh.”

Tobio blinked. Hinata sounded… disappointed. Tobio’s heartbeat picked up; his belly squirmed. It sounded like Hinata wished he’d found him with his shirt off, and the thought that Hinata wanted to see him like that was odd enough to short-circuit his brain. Never mind his own fantasies, the way he couldn’t seem to breathe when Hinata’s clothes were in disarray—that was different. Hinata couldn’t want him in the same way, even if he said he liked him.

Except Hinata’s words and actions suggested he could, and the thought was… bizarre. It made Tobio feel too warm, even in the winter-cold room.

“D’you want to watch something?” Hinata mumbled. His gaze moved along Tobio’s arms.

He wanted a movie night? Now? Except, if they had a movie night they could sit together, and Tobio wouldn’t have to worry about what face he was making, and they could just be quiet in the dark—

“Yes,” he said.

Hinata grabbed his hand before standing. It felt stupid, having Hinata pull him from the bed like he couldn’t get up by himself, but he didn’t shake Hinata off. Didn’t want to. Not ever again, possibly. After putting on some pajama pants one-handed he let Hinata lead him to the couch and tried not to have an aneurysm as Hinata draped around him. They ended with him on his back and Hinata half over him, a leg over his legs, an arm around his middle.

“This okay?” Hinata asked. Tobio grunted and moved so he was holding Hinata more firmly across the shoulders, even though having him so close made it hard to breathe. Hinata smelled and felt so good, coated in a bright ordinariness that overwhelmed Tobio more than any kind of perfume or cologne. His warmth pressing into Tobio was like a living thing, impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t relaxing, lounging like this—but it felt amazing.

“Mm,” Tobio agreed. “Okay for you?”

Hinata was getting the movie set up via a number of remotes set on Tobio’s stomach, but he froze at the question. He looked at him, then tilted his head back and laughed.

Tobio smiled along for a moment, then asked: “What?”

“Just the phrasing,” Hinata said, a shiver of amusement still in his voice. “ _Okay_.”

Now Tobio thought about it, that was pretty funny. _Okay_ didn’t even begin to cut it.

“It feels like exploding,” Hinata volunteered, grinning like a fool.

Tobio covered his own foolish grin with his hand, looking away. He couldn’t keep an affectionate rumble of _dumbass_ from slipping past his lips, no matter how he agreed. Hinata was dumb. They were both dumb. They belonged together, possibly in more ways than he’d ever imagined outside of fantasies he knew not to trust. It was impossible, but it seemed to be true.

Hinata nestled in. His face against Tobio’s chest was a source of red heat, and it was impossible to calm down or steady out his breathing. Tobio didn’t notice the movie playing, full of actors and actresses trying their best. He didn’t care.

Some other day, they could rewatch it and follow the plot. For now all his attention was caught by the slight movements Hinata made, the slide of his leg against his, the movement of his hand, his face nestling in. For his part Tobio dragged his hand up and down Hinata’s arm, felt skin, felt Hinata shiver. Every movement brought a response, and once Hinata pressed a kiss to his shirt and nearly stilled his heart. He didn’t think he’d ever forget this night: Hinata’s warmth sinking in, Hinata’s attention centred just as firmly on his body as his attention was centred on Hinata’s.

Neither of them commented or bothered to call the stupid behaviour out. It was a rare armistice, competitive fire doused by mutual need.

They were both stupid, probably, and that was fine. Better than fine; it felt amazing.

It felt like exploding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd that concludes the sfw portion of this fic!!! If you're not into sexy chapters your Acceptable Risk journey ends here. If you ARE into sexy chapters, I get to keep you a while longer! I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as possible, with next Saturday as the latest I'll post. I hope you'll enjoy that too!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a truly indecent amount of smut so I hope that's what you signed up for. Thank you as always for your support! Cx

For once Shouyou didn’t fall asleep on the couch. He’d had a full day, of course, but he wasn’t the least bit tired. His eyes ached a little and that was all; he felt like he could run three consecutive marathons, and then maybe jump to the top of Tokyo Tower.

No: Sky Tree.

“My bed or yours?” he asked when the movie was done. _Again_ Kageyama seemed to struggle with the question, which made no sense. Shouldn’t it be easier now?

“It’s not—we can’t—”

Shouyou drew back to look at him by the light of the TV screen. “Can’t what?” he asked honestly. He was pretty sure now there was nothing they couldn’t do.

“We won’t be able to sleep if we sleep in the same bed.”

“So?”

“There’s practice tomorrow.”

Shouyou almost found himself saying they should skip—but he’d only just found out Kageyama liked him. It was probably better not to make him rethink that so soon.

“I can practice on not much sleep,” he said instead. He kept his chin tucked, looking up at Kageyama with a hint of challenge—the way of looking at Kageyama that always seemed to have a better effect than just asking him things straight out.

Wait—was that because Kageyama liked him? Was Kageyama weak to it because—

Kageyama’s hand dropped over Shouyou’s face. Shouyou grabbed it, trying to look around it to see what was going on, but Kageyama was looking stalwartly away once Shouyou got a clear view.

“What!” Shouyou demanded.

“Just wait a moment.”

“I don’t want to,” Shouyou said, and used all his strength and determination to get past the outstretched hand. He fell into Kageyama’s lap, facedown on the couch, which didn’t help him see Kageyama’s expression. Apparently this was okay by Kageyama though, because he didn’t push him off. All he did was lean over so Shouyou couldn’t get back up or turn to look.

It seemed Kageyama had a thing about Shouyou being able to see his face now.

“D’you not want to, or something?” Shouyou asked. When he heard his own voice, he realised it wasn’t clear what he was referring to—sleeping in the same bed or… not-sleeping in the same bed. Embarrassed heat filled his stomach.

But then, why wouldn’t they now?

Shouyou had liked Kageyama for over a year. In his dreams, he’d had his mouth on every part of him. They’d done unspeakable things. He was mentally prepared, even if the shock of Kageyama liking him back was still fresh.

“Have you—” Shouyou started, at the same time as Kageyama said, “isn’t it—”

They both stopped.

“You go,” Kageyama said.

“Have you liked me for a while?”

“Yeah.”

“So it’s not new.”

A long silence, then: “No.” The emphasis on the _no_ was suspicious, but Shouyou couldn’t wriggle around to see what face Kageyama was making.

He swallowed. If it wasn’t new, shouldn’t Kageyama be prepared too? Shouyou wanted to unwrap him like a long-awaited birthday present, travel up and down his body touching everything, all the more appreciative because he was a gift Shouyou had never expected to receive. He’d appreciate Kageyama like a museum piece, except with touching. Lots of touching. And looking.

He was going to look so much, once he had the chance.

“What were you going to ask?” Shouyou asked, drawing back from happy fantasies.

“Nothing. And I think… mine.”

“Huh?”

“My bed. Let’s go to mine.”

Shouyou squirmed. When Kageyama moved he shot up and off the couch, pulling Kageyama along again. They’d had a bathroom break during the movie—even that short amount of time not touching Kageyama had left Shouyou feeling bereft—so he didn’t bother letting Kageyama have a moment to himself now. Kageyama didn’t seem to need one, anyway. They got into bed facing each other, the bedside light on, blankets covering them. Only their knees touched.

“You could take your shirt off if you wanted,” Shouyou suggested into tense, expectant silence.

“So could you,” Kageyama said, voice deeper than usual. His eyes looked darker too.

Was that arousal? That was so weird. The thought of Kageyama aroused, wanting to see him shirtless, was _so weird_. He was meant to think Shouyou was disgusting for all these things, not… not want them too.

Not that Shouyou was complaining. It made him feel weightless, filled with just light and squirming butterflies. The neutral-faced, tall genius All-Japan player, frequent bane of Shouyou’s existence these past five years, wanted him back.

The Kageyama of the past five years wanted him back.

“You want me to?” Shouyou asked

Kageyama swallowed visibly. “Yeah.”

“Really?”

This seemed to curb Kageyama’s nervousness some. He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t offer if you’re not going to do it.”

Shouyou sat up enough to whip off his shirt, fast. He didn’t look to see where it fell; he went straight back to facing Kageyama beneath the blankets, one hand under their shared pillow. Kageyama’s eyes didn’t meet his. Instead they tracked down his neck to his shoulder before sweeping his collarbones and what was visible of his chest under the blankets. Shouyou felt his gaze like a blazing heat lamp, Kageyama’s focus so complete Shouyou almost felt embarrassed.

But why would he be? Kageyama had seen him shirtless lots. He’d seen him naked lots too. Still, normally he didn’t _stare_ , and this went a few steps beyond staring.

“I can’t see like this,” Kageyama said eventually, and sat up. He moved the blankets off with him, and Shouyou rolled onto his back to maintain eye contact—not that Kageyama was meeting his eyes.

Like this, Shouyou’s bare torso was _actually_ on display, and if the staring before had been intense it was outdone by this new dose of staring. Kageyama looked at his body as if he was memorising every square centimetre. Like he couldn’t look enough. It was beyond strange but it was also—Shouyou swallowed.

It was also arousing, in a confusing sort of way, his nipples hardening under the scrutiny. _You’re the person I stare at, not the other way around,_ he thought, but Kageyama didn’t read his mind and refute this.

Finally—finally—Kageyama’s eyes tracked back up to meet his. They were dark and serious.

“What about the rest?” Kageyama asked.

“Of—my clothes?” Shouyou squeaked.

Kageyama nodded.

“Seems kind of unfair, doesn’t it?” Shouyou said, with a nod at Kageyama’s shirt. Not to mention Kageyama had put on more clothes than he was wearing earlier. Earlier, when he’d woken up, it had just been boxer briefs and a T-shirt. Spit flooded Shouyou’s mouth. Dark, well-fitted boxer briefs.

“You can have your turn,” Kageyama said, still intimidatingly intense, and Shouyou lifted his hips in answer at this promise. To his relief Kageyama only pulled down his bottoms, not his underwear. The staring was doing weird things, and he was… well. Responding. He could feel the sweet ache of himself going hard in his briefs, surrounded by Kageyama’s smell, mostly naked in Kageyama’s bed, under Kageyama’s gaze. He was pretty sure he’d shrivel if Kageyama looked directly at his erection, though.

Kageyama shifted down the bed more, sitting by Shouyou’s knee and looking at his feet, his calves, moving up. Again he looked like he was memorising everything, and he even touched his index finger to the top of Shouyou’s knee when his eyes fell on it, along the line where Shouyou’s knee pad usually fell. It was weirdly intimate for a non-erogenous zone, and after a long moment of Kageyama’s fingertips against it Shouyou wasn’t sure it _was_ a non-erogenous zone.

And then Kageyama’s gaze tracked up to his thighs.

Shouyou couldn’t have said what the difference in Kageyama’s face was. If anything it seemed as if the shadows in the room deepened around him, putting him in starker focus, but that was impossible. Shouyou pulled up one of his knees, itchy under Kageyama’s continued scrutiny, and at the movement Kageyama seemed to stare harder, like a hawk spotting prey. His eyes glued to the now-visible inside and back of Shouyou’s lifted thigh.

“Seriously?” Shouyou mumbled, caught between being flattered and outright confused. How could _anyone_ enjoy looking at someone’s body this much?

Then he remembered it was his turn next, and withheld judgment.

Shouyou’s indistinct mumble seemed to break Kageyama out of a trance. He stopped retracing the muscles in Shouyou’s thighs over and over with his eyes and met his gaze.

“Done?” Shouyou asked, ready for his turn.

“No.” Kageyama looked almost offended to be asked; he went back to looking at Shouyou’s thighs. And then his eyes tracked up to where his burning stare was having an effect, and Shouyou found out that he didn’t, in fact, shrivel under Kageyama’s gaze. He hoped the fact that he was wearing bright checkered briefs might obscure the exact lines of his… he sighed. His _excitement_. It was hard not to squirm, not to jerk his hips up—as if he wanted Kageyama aware of him there, despite how embarrassing it was.

This wasn’t like anything he’d ever imagined. Kageyama was studying him like he studied videos of opponents they would face soon. Worse, it was working for him. He liked it—liked the way Kageyama studied him, like every part was important. Like his body was special, instead of too small for professional volleyball, not ideal, not what anyone would ask for if they had their pick. Kageyama’s intense scrutiny made a cold room feel summer-warm.

“You’ve seen me naked plenty of times,” Shouyou said. His voice was kind of shaky, which annoyed him immensely. Like he needed anything besides the erection giving away what this was doing to him.

“That was different,” Kageyama said. His gaze caressed Shouyou’s hips above his briefs, intimate as a touch.

It _was_ different. Kageyama had managed to give the impression he wasn’t looking. To Shouyou’s knowledge, Kageyama had never even stolen glances at him before. In the face of all this new information, that seemed unlikely.

“Did you look?” Shouyou asked, voice barely a whisper. “Before.”

Kageyama’s voice seemed equally thick. “Yeah.”

“I never noticed.”

“Of course not.”

“What does that mean?”

Finally Kageyama stopped making eye contact with Shouyou’s boner, looking up at Shouyou properly. “I wouldn’t look while you were looking, idiot. I’m not stupid.”

Apparently they were both stupid enough to think they were alone in their feelings when they weren’t, though. They were both stupid enough to hide everything for ages, when they could have been doing this long ago.

It still didn’t feel like a waste of time, somehow. Loving Kageyama was natural, the clear extension of everything that came before between them. Shouyou could have felt less tortured by it if he’d just told his better judgement to hit the road and told Kageyama how he felt the moment he realised, but there was no way he could have known that at the time. No way but asking, and asking could have ruined all the things that were most important to him.

Maybe he’d been a coward, just a little. Just a tiny bit. But he didn’t exactly regret it either, when today was happening right now.

He propped himself up on his elbows. “Can it be my turn yet?”

Again movement drew Kageyama’s gaze. He looked at Shouyou’s hips, his abs, his chest. Skittishly, he even met his eyes now and then, as if putting two and two together.

“Fair’s fair,” Shouyou continued.

Kageyama looked up and down his body again. “A little longer.” A hand came up and almost touched him—but retracted.

Shouyou groaned, head dropping back. “I’m gonna die!”

“Are you cold?”

His head shot up. “Will you warm me up?”

For a moment there was no response—and then Kageyama’s face darkened, and darkened, and darkened. Was he _blushing_? If he was, it was more than he’d ever blushed in front of Shouyou before. Laughter caught in Shouyou’s stomach, then his throat, and then—

Kageyama’s hand pushed him down bodily, right at the center of his chest. Shouyou gargled with almost-laughter—and then another hand came up to cover his mouth. He laughed despite it, hard and painfully, the noise stifled by Kageyama’s palm. He couldn’t stop. It was a full-body laugh, prompted by Kageyama’s look of shock, his focus—Kageyama’s _everything_. God, it was too much. He wished he could always feel like this: laughter shaking his bones, Kageyama over him, Kageyama’s steady, embarrassed cussing in his ears.

“Kageyama,” he said against the palm over his mouth, making sure to lick it in the process. “I really, really love you.”

“Shut up.”

“Nope. Never. I never will.”

Kageyama moved, putting more of his weight on Shouyou’s chest. He looked totally overwhelmed—as overwhelmed as Shouyou felt. Laughter kept on in Shouyou’s body, and so he let it out a bit, and Kageyama seemed almost ready to join him. Their eyes met—brown eyes to blue, time slowing somehow. Those eyes were set in the face Shouyou loved, the face he’d seen in every mood, every colour. Kageyama looked back at him in exasperation, in frustration, in—affection.

It looked like affection.

Kageyama’s forehead dropped onto his.

“Idiot,” Kageyama said, without heat.

“I’m not the one burning holes with my stare,” Shouyou said, though perhaps that wasn’t true. He’d been watching Kageyama just as intently, just—his face, not his body.

He _hoped_ to get to his body.

“You minded, did you?”

Shouyou hissed. That was a low blow. He’d been on display, it wasn’t fair—but, well. Fine. “You know, lots of people would get scared, being looked at that way.”

“Are you asking me for compliments?”

“Yes.”

Kageyama let out a breath. Shouyou expected something cutting, something scold-ey or humorous—but all Kageyama said was: “You look amazing. Every part.”

Shouyou swallowed complaints. _Oh._

“Take off your shirt,” he said thickly. “You’ve had your turn.”

Kageyama drew back. He let out a shaky sigh, but he did as he was told, sitting up to take the shirt off. Shouyou sat up too, watching it come off. It drew up over Kageyama’s chest, over his elbows, his forearms, and then it was gone, dropped onto the floor. There it was: there it all was. Kageyama’s chest, his abs, his collarbones. _Lewd_. Shouyou always thought that—that Kageyama’s body was so perfect it was lewd. He always looked lewd. Shouyou touched a finger to Kageyama’s collarbone and watched him swallow—then set his hand more firmly against Kageyama’s chest.

His skin was really nice. Shouyou liked the way the nipple nearest his hand stood out harder than the other; it seemed like a fitting revenge for earlier, when Kageyama had looked at his briefs so unflinchingly and he had found himself responding. Neither of them was immune to being looked at or touched.

 _Good_. That was good—really good.

His eyes flicked up to meet Kageyama’s. He wanted to ask for permission, but he also wanted to just… do it. All of this was laid out in front of him now, and he’d waited, and it wasn’t like Kageyama hadn’t been rude with his staring.

“What?” Kageyama asked gruffly.

Shouyou smiled slightly—and then he dipped forward, pressing his mouth to the spot he’d touched. Kageyama’s collarbone.

Shouyou was biased, but he thought it might be the best feeling in the world, pressing his mouth—his tongue—to Kageyama’s body. Kageyama twitched.

“What are you—”

Shouyou licked. Not in a big way—just a little. He glanced up—no horrified rejection there yet—and moved his mouth to Kageyama’s neck. He pressed a kiss there, then tasted this bit of Kageyama’s skin as well.

“Shou—Hinata?”

He looked up, grinning. He’d caught that slip. “You can call me Shouyou if you want.”

Kageyama’s brows drew together. “I know that.”

Shouyou continued grinning. “You can call me all sorts of things.”

Kageyama’s voice was thick. “How about _dumbass_?”

“That’s fine too.” Their faces were very close, like this. There was a lot of exposed skin, and if they came together it would all touch. Shouyou pitched his voice high, going porn-actress fake. “Nh, dumbass! You feel amazing! Dumbass! Harder!”

Kageyama went truly, utterly still. All the oxygen seemed to leave the room.

A _just kidding_ hovered somewhere in Shouyou’s air supply, but he kept it in. He was curious what would happen. Perhaps Kageyama would murder him; that seemed likely. At least Shouyou would die having just put his mouth on his skin.

“What was that meant to be?” Kageyama asked, voice very low.

A shiver travelled down Shouyou’s exposed, somehow vulnerable-feeling spine. “You?” he tried anyway, ready to be murdered.

There was a long silence, a buildup where Kageyama looked at him, and looked, and looked—and then he surged forward, knocking him back. His hands came up on Shouyou’s sides, tickling him mercilessly, using his large body to keep him pinned. Shouyou crowed with laughter, but even the terrible onslaught of tickling couldn’t totally dim his other senses—senses that screamed Kageyama’s bare skin was against his, that the thing there had been a hard nipple brushing his chest, that that warmth came from Kageyama pressing into him directly. It would have made him gasp with desire if he wasn’t already gasping with great breaths of laughter. He pushed at Kageyama’s hands, trying to deflect, but it was useless. Kageyama’s fingers flitted along his sides, pure torture, and he squirmed under him half-sobbing, utterly overwhelmed with the relentless tickling and the partial nakedness of the guy he’d liked for so long all up against him.

Eventually, his tickle-sensitivity dulled and he stopped laughing as hard, and that seemed to be the moment Kageyama became aware of the situation. Shouyou knew, because Kageyama froze. His head was pushed into the mattress by Shouyou’s shoulder, taking some of his weight, and he had his knees up taking the rest of it—but every ragged breath brought their chests together. Shouyou pushed his heels into the mattress and lifted himself, lengthening the contact. He felt Kageyama’s sudden exhale.

Neither of them was immune.

“Kageyama?”

A shuddery breath, then: “Yeah?”

So much skin. So much warm skin. The scent of Kageyama was pressed in close, familiar and strange in equal measure.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” Shouyou said. “But good.”

Much of Kageyama’s weight settled on him suddenly, forcing him down into the mattress. He swallowed hard, waiting for Kageyama to speak. He had to wait a long time; the side of Kageyama’s head pressed against his own. He felt Kageyama’s face turn towards his slightly.

“Yeah,” Kageyama breathed against the shell of his ear, making him shiver. “Yeah, it’s weird.”

“But good,” Shouyou prompted. _C’mon, Kageyama-kun. Say it._

There was a shuddering sigh, a long pause, then: “Shouyou…”

“Yeah?” Shouyou’s heart was in his throat.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Shouyou turned his face towards Kageyama, and Kageyama lifted himself enough to meet his eyes. “Uh,” Shouyou said, cleverly. “What—what kind of what to do?”

Kageyama rose to press their foreheads together. “Anything. Do you?”

Shouyou let out a laughing breath. “Of course not. I never thought this would happen. I thought you hated this stuff.”

“So _stupid_ …” Kageyama mumbled.

“Yeah, you are.”

“ _You_ are.” Kageyama lifted himself to look at Shouyou’s face. “We are.”

Shouyou’s brows rose. That was a big concession, from him. “Both of us?”

Kageyama’s eyes shuttered; he felt him shiver. Each movement subtly brushed skin. There was no way to avoid touching, nowhere to back into. It felt amazing.

Would it feel even more amazing if Shouyou put his hands on the small of Kageyama’s back and pulled, forcing him to drop his hips onto his? He suspected yes, but didn’t act yet. Kageyama still had his knees planted; it might not be possible to draw him down like that.

“I think… yes,” Kageyama said. His eyes were slits. “Both.”

“I can agree with that.”

It was Kageyama’s turn to be surprised. His eyes opened properly, sending a jolt through Shouyou. “You can?”

“Yeah,” Shouyou said. Laughter tickled in his stomach. “We agree on something.”

Twin smiles pulled at their mouths. It felt… unbelievable, really. Admission of guilt was still pretty much a foreign concept for both of them; it was just habit to blame the other. But in this…

“I just want to be close,” Shouyou said, barely above a whisper. “I don’t care how.”

“Yeah.”

“Take off your pajamas. Fair’s fair.”

“I thought you didn’t care how?”

“I care about this. Unfair-yama. Inequality-ya—”

“Shut up, I’m going,” Kageyama interrupted, sitting up. He wrestled out of his pajama bottoms, and there were those boxer briefs again, dark and perfect, and the outline of Kageyama’s cock below. Shouyou had thought he felt it, earlier—just a brush of hardness against his hip, quickly retracted. He had the impression Kageyama had been trying to hide it.

Shouyou sighed with pleasure.

“Don’t stare, idiot.”

“ _You_ stared. I want to stare.” He sat up to do just that. He loved the line of underwear against the fullness of Kageyama’s thighs. He imagined Kageyama’s legs in summer, how tan lines would stand out at the exact length of his volleyball shorts. He wanted to make Kageyama turn so he could see all of him, the way cotton moulded to his form. Kageyama in his shorts at practice tended to force Shouyou into swallowing spit and looking away; now, he would be allowed to look.

“Lay down?” Shouyou asked, voice hitching. “On your front.”

“That’s not—”

“Did you hear me complain?”

“I did,” Kageyama said, but gingerly he moved to lay on his front, and Shouyou sighed with pleasure despite the suspicious eye Kageyama kept on him. Kageyama’s back and shoulders were beautiful, but the dip of his spine combined with the roundness of his glutes in boxer briefs stole the show. It wasn’t a sight Shouyou had often been able to stare at. He reached out, stroked soft cotton over muscle.

 _Oh_. Oh, that was a feeling. He brought in his left hand too, for good measure. His palms tingled with sensation. When he pushed up like this, it made Kageyama shock up slightly, eyes closing tight. Shouyou could just imagine slotting himself there, breathing into Kageyama’s neck and making him sensitive with—

“My turn,” Kageyama said, shooting up after what felt like too little time. He tried to push Shouyou down, but Shouyou resisted, and they sat in stalemate, kneeling facing each other, hands wrapped around each other’s arms. After a moment Shouyou rose onto his knees, Kageyama’s eyes on his.

His body was on display again, he realised. The only reason he realised was because the intense eye contact was broken as Kageyama’s gaze scrawled up and down his body, fire-hot, and it almost made him laugh. It was like Kageyama couldn’t look away from bare skin if it was there now. All that time looking away was over; a dam had broken.

Shouyou could relate, but still.

“You didn’t let me look long enough,” Shouyou complained. He was stable on his knees like this, but Kageyama could probably push him over and wrestle him down if he surprised him. He was tensed for an attack.

No attack came. “I’ve liked you longer,” Kageyama said instead, softly. He was staring at Shouyou’s hip, lovingly tracking his eyes up and down one side. Shouyou’s mouth opened.

“Huh?”

“I’ve liked you longer, so my turn’s longer. Fair’s fair.”

“How long?”

There was a beat. If Shouyou had to guess, he guessed Kageyama was considering lying or not telling him— _just longer_ , Shouyou could hear him say in his mind—but Kageyama’s eyes flicked up to meet his and away, and he cleared his throat.

“Last year of high school. End of summer.”

Shock was a cool breath over Shouyou’s flushed skin. That was—long. It felt like a different lifetime, high school, even if it was only two years ago. And summer, wasn’t that when…

“While I was dati—”

Kageyama clamped a hand over his mouth. “So longer! Lay down.”

Shouyou wanted to argue. Kageyama’s hands gripping him hard felt good, and it wasn’t in his nature to just give in when he wanted to push, but an embarrassing wave of _something_ had him backing down, lying on his front.

While he was dating Midori. That long.

Shouyou was rewarded for his timidity when Kageyama knelt and began running his hands up the backs of his legs. All of Shouyou went tense, inside and out. He heard Kageyama’s exhale, but his own breath was caught in his throat. Those large, talented hands slid up, and up, and up, and then they were cupping along the fabric of his briefs, pushing slightly, the sensation of it turning the breath in his throat to a whine that wanted to escape. He tried to swallow it, twisting his hips to get friction against his front—something to take the edge off.

Kageyama didn’t stop, but he did move on. His hands caressed Shouyou’s hips, rubbing circles into his skin, then traced his spine, palms flattening against muscle groups on their way up like he was picking them out, memorising them like pictures in their anatomy textbooks. It reminded Shouyou of when he’d forced Kageyama to take his shirt off so he could learn muscle groups better. It really had helped him retain the material—but mostly because the image of Kageyama’s bare chest and shoulders and back with names of muscle groups written on had remained clear in his mind for days after, effective as any cheatsheet.

Shouyou hadn’t offered to return the favour, and Kageyama hadn’t pushed. _Stupid_. It was so odd that Kageyama liked him, because Kageyama was never the one initiating contact or wheedling for permissions. As fervent as his exploration was now, he’d been totally passive for all the long months of his crush, never cheating like Shouyou did with all the stolen touches and thin excuses. Shouyou turned his head.

“Why’d you always push me away if you like me so much?” he asked, voice soft.

Kageyama’s hands stilled on his shoulder blades, thumbs gently skimming his skin. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“What, like you’d pop a boner if you sat close? Is that why you pushed me away all those times?”

Kageyama pushed him now. “Nothing like that. I’m not _that_ bad.”

The evidence the moment they’d started exploring each other suggested they were both that bad, but Shouyou kept quiet, sensing Kageyama would say more if he wasn’t interrupted.

“It was…” Kageyama trailed off. A hand stroked along Shouyou’s shoulder as he thought, rephrased. “If you came to me, it wasn’t my fault.”

“ _Fault_?”

Kageyama’s head dropped down, fringe obscuring his eyes from view. “It sounds stupid out loud.”

“Tell me.” Oddly, Kageyama’s discomfiture didn’t quite delight Shouyou. Something in his posture made his embarrassment seem something other than funny. Not sad, exactly, but vulnerable in a way that didn’t make Shouyou’s belly tickle with rival-ey amusement.

Kageyama’s voice went very soft. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“You said I was stupid, so explain it like a normal person anyway, even if it’s obvious.”

“My… what I imagined…” Kageyama’s hand caressed Shouyou’s shoulder, then came back down to his shoulder blade, his hip. “Imagining you… like that… if I was the one getting close, it’d be like I was taking advantage. But if you were always the one sitting up against me, and climbing all over me after matches, and making me touch you, then…”

“Then if you got off to it later you weren’t the one who put the images there?”

“Yeah.”

Shouyou laughed. “I’m glad I never left you alone, then.”

He caught Kageyama’s glare with smiling eyes. He sighed after a moment, rolling onto his side to look at him better.

“We didn’t know,” he said. “What’s it matter now?”

Kageyama rolled him back onto his front forcefully, but the glare melted into something neutral that in Kageyama’s range of expressions meant he was pleased. “It doesn’t.”

Shouyou turned his face into the mattress, his grin biting, the triumph in his blood almost painful. “Right. It doesn’t.”

For a moment he was lost in Kageyama’s hands on him, the certainty of Kageyama’s freak focus taking him in one hundred percent. The hairs on his arms stood up. It was already too much—and then he thought about Kageyama’s body again, Kageyama in the dark alone and thinking of him.

He squirmed into the mattress, his every sense suddenly foreign. He wanted so many things, needed them with a kind of desperation that was unfamiliar. Before, his needs had been destined to go unfulfilled, and that had taken some sort of edge off. There was less pressure.

Now…

There was so much to want, so much his body convinced him he needed. He needed to drink Kageyama in for hours, reassure himself he was his. Every tiny bit of him. All that long body, all the muscle, all the cleverness in Kageyama’s fingers. He wanted Kageyama’s mind and soul as if it belonged to him, a possession. He wanted Kageyama to want him just as badly, desperately, like nothing and no one else would do.

Nothing and no one else _would_ do. Not for Shouyou, not now he knew.

“Kageyama,” he said. “Let me up.”

“No,” Kageyama said, and Shouyou was about to turn and wrestle, but the exploring hands stopped and suddenly Kageyama’s front was pressed into him, and there was so much skin-to-skin contact Shouyou’s heart jumped into his throat. More than that, Kageyama’s face was suddenly very near his, breathing over his shoulder, and he shuddered into the mattress.

Kageyama was hard up against him. There was no question, no hiding. Shouyou pressed back, raising his butt up. He felt Kageyama’s shudders, twin to his own. It had been a long wait for both of them, perhaps longer for having not been a wait. It had been a battle they’d both assumed they’d lost.

How Kageyama could think Shouyou was immune to him—his height, his face, his body—when his skills opened a different universe was a mystery for the ages. Shouyou wondered what about him could have enticed Kageyama, whether it had anything to do with his body or his mind or just the roles they played on the court. It didn’t matter. He was grateful something about him had driven Kageyama wild—for years.

Actual, literal years.

“Can I turn yet?” Shouyou muttered into the bed, wanting to reciprocate. He loved the feeling of Kageyama behind him, all that contact, the warmth and the hardness, but he wanted to see him more. He wanted to look up and know it was Kageyama looking back down at him. Glaring down, probably. He wanted to kiss him again.

Kageyama ignored the question, exhaling into his neck in a way that made all his hairs stand up. Kageyama’s mouth brushed at the junction of his neck and shoulder, lips soft and open, and Shouyou nearly bucked him off instinctually. It was too much sensation and too little, utterly frustrating, but Kageyama’s weight soothed ruffled feathers. Shouyou squirmed under him.

“Stop moving,” Kageyama said, in his own voice, because this was all really happening. Shouyou squirmed more. It was Kageyama above him, just like in a hundred fantasies. Kageyama pinning him down. As if he heard the thought, Kageyama pinned him more thoroughly, because of course he would; he’d never learned to be easy about things. Shouyou never wanted him to learn.

“I’m turning,” Shouyou said, and turned with great difficulty, Kageyama’s weight making it almost impossible—and then he was on his back, and Kageyama was still on him, mostly, and their eyes met by the light of the bedside lamp. This position put parts of them in contact that never had been before, and Shouyou knew they were both aware of it but not mentioning it, not forcing the awareness into speech because then they’d have to do something about it, decide. Kageyama was close and utterly silent, all his focus on Shouyou, the puff of his exhales soft against his face. His hardness was there against Shouyou, heavy and ready.

There was a challenge in Kageyama’s gaze, or maybe it was just the way he looked at all times and Shouyou was reading into it. Either way, it took Shouyou screwing up his courage to tense his neck and move up to press his mouth to Kageyama’s in a kiss. Kageyama breathed out through his nose—and leaned in.

 _Oh_. It was different now, kissing. Easier. Maybe with their bodies touching so much they were both too distracted to do it all wrong, all intense and too much. It was just enough. Shouyou’s focus was divided between a hundred different points of contact, still with that low amazement simmering beneath his skin because he was kissing a mostly-naked, definitely-hard Kageyama in Kageyama’s bed. Kageyama was moving against him, thigh sliding between his, hands moving to inch into his hair and hold his head steady. It wasn’t as tentative as the touches from earlier, but there was still something questioning about it—maybe because Kageyama kept drawing back just enough to glance at him; each time their lips separated there was an assessing look Shouyou knew he wasn’t meant to see.

He saw, because he was looking too.

In all those glances, those checks to make sure they were both still there, arousal was an unspoken truth between them. It would be impossible not to notice they were both hard with their bodies pressed together. Every movement of Kageyama’s hips brought a dose of friction, terrible and wonderful, and Kageyama’s erection was digging into him in return. Shouyou’s focus narrowed to a point, fascinated with this part of Kageyama he’d never been allowed to explore, never seen like this.

He knew it was stupid. It wasn’t like he couldn’t predict what Kageyama’s cock would look like—but the skin Kageyama’s clothed erection lay against burned, and Shouyou’s hands ached to grab. He wanted to see, feel. Was it weird to be curious?

The next time Kageyama dipped down to kiss him Shouyou hooked a leg, flipping them. There was barely enough space, but Kageyama allowed it. Now when Shouyou pulled back Kageyama lay under him, his hair falling back. Everything inside of Shouyou ached at the sight.

“Can I touch you?” he asked in a rush, before his throat could close.

“H—huh?”

Shouyou didn’t think Kageyama misunderstood. The way his face flooded with colour said he understood perfectly. Shouyou moved his thigh.

“Well? Can I?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Not sure what? You don’t want me to?”

Kageyama made an odd groaning noise. “Of course I want you to, _idiot_ , but what if I just—” he cut himself off.

“What?”

Kageyama glared. “What if I _come_?”

Shouyou stared down at him. “You think I don’t want you to?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know how it’s meant to work now. It’s not… gross?”

Shouyou laughed, delighted at the thought. “You couldn’t be gross to me even if you were trying.”

“I’m sure I could.”

“Okay, fine. You could, but you couldn’t if you _weren’t_ trying.” Better to nip that in the bud; Kageyama was still as competitive as always. He didn’t want him to lick the inside of his ear or anything.

Kageyama looked relieved. “No?”

Shouyou sensed a win. “Promise. Does that mean you’ll let me?”

Kageyama’s head fell back. His eyes closed for a moment, and he let out a breath. “Yeah, of course.”

There was no _of course_ about it. Shouyou still felt kind of shy about the whole thing; he wasn’t sure he’d let Kageyama touch him just now. It would make him feel ten leagues beyond vulnerable. Much as he wanted Kageyama’s hands on him—talented hands, godly hands—it would make him insecure. Even though one dick was much like another, it would be Kageyama’s hands on _his_ and that was something else.

Stupid as it was, he wanted Kageyama to like his dick. Like he apparently liked him.

He stayed low, thinking Kageyama might renege if he made a big deal. All he did was slide to the side a little, and this allowed him to get a hand between them, to slide down Kageyama’s stomach to his underwear. He ignored Kageyama’s shivers, flattening his hand to get past the waistband of his boxer briefs, and the elastic allowed him access.

Shouyou’s hand was under the fabric. He felt coarse hair, and then…

Kageyama’s half-panicked exhale was loud in his ears. Shouyou’s fingers were on hot, swollen flesh; he moved them so they were wrapped more firmly around it. The fingers were tingly-numb with the shock of touching Kageyama like this, as if his body was putting out disbelief that blocked sensation, but he fought through it, forcing himself to feel the heat against his palm. Kageyama’s rasping breaths got worse.

“You okay?” Shouyou asked.

“Shouyou,” Kageyama gasped. It didn’t seem the lead-up to a statement or question, though it sounded halfway to a plea.

“To-bi-o,” Shouyou responded. His mouth was filled with saliva, his body one big ache of need. He was holding Kageyama’s cock—the one part of Kageyama he hadn’t been repeatedly exposed to, not like this. The part of Kageyama that was mostly a mystery beneath volleyball shorts and loose sweatpants and pristine white bath towels. There had been a phase early on in his crush when Shouyou hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, imagining it, glancing whenever Kageyama sat with his legs spread. He was holding it in his hand now, like he was allowed to. He _was_ allowed to. Kageyama was letting him. Maybe wanted him to. Shouyou wanted to move it against him, lay it flush against him. In his fantasies, sometimes, he’d ridden it like the guys in porn, guided it into himself and felt the heat of Kageyama pulsing there too. The thought was exciting and terrifying all at the same time. He could imagine Kageyama looking up at him, and now he’d seen the way Kageyama stared at his body he could imagine the appreciation, the hunger in his gaze.

So much seemed within arm’s reach now.

Kageyama was still gasping. “D-don’t.”

Shouyou’s hand slackened. “Uh, what—”

“Don’t touch... too much. I’ll…”

“Yes?”

Kageyama swallowed. “ _Guess_ , idiot.”

“Just bear it for a bit,” Shouyou said, rolling his palm down. Kageyama’s length was really, really ungiving beneath soft skin, and outside of Shouyou’s grasp every bit of Kageyama seemed to be trembling. “Can I look?”

“You want to?” Kageyama sounded disbelieving.

“Well, yeah.” Shouyou drew back to look at Kageyama’s face, wondering. He really loved Kageyama’s body, all of it, but he couldn’t exactly say why he loved this part so much except that it made him burn to think about it. “Is that weird?”

“Is—how am I supposed to know?”

Shouyou laughed slightly. “I don’t know. Do you want to see mine?”

Kageyama sat up suddenly. Shouyou had to draw his hand back, and somehow they ended up sitting strangely, facing each other, Shouyou mostly in Kageyama’s lap. This seemed to be Kageyama’s intent; his eyes were glowing with purpose.

“What?” Shouyou asked breathlessly. That look in Kageyama’s eyes…

“Go on, then.”

“Go on _what_?”

“Show me.”

“What are we, seven? And it wasn’t an offer! It was…” What was it called? A rhetorical question? Shouyou floundered. “Anyway, who cares! But I’ll just shrivel if you look at me that way, so don’t.”

Kageyama looked arrested. “You didn’t earlier.”

Shouyou held up a hand, pushed Kageyama’s too-intense face back. “It’s too much pressure! I’m not godly, okay! Whatever you fantasised is probably way better.”

A struggle ensued. Shouyou tried to keep his advantage, but Kageyama had gone silent and driven and he managed to roll them so he was pinning Shouyou down again. He didn’t look, though; he held on, hands trapping Shouyou’s wrists, face to Shouyou’s chest.

“It’s already better. Stupid. _Stupid_. How could you even _think_ …”

Kageyama wasn’t talking to him, exactly. He seemed to be talking to himself, or the air. He stopped talking, but only because he began kissing: Shouyou’s neck, under his jaw, his collarbone. His hands were worshipful when they let go of his wrists, but they were descending, rounding Shouyou’s hips to move to the front, and Shouyou clamped his hands around his wrists to stop him.

Kageyama didn’t resist, and the not-resisting continued when Shouyou pulled and pushed to get Kageyama under him again. It was _still_ Shouyou’s turn, damn it. Kageyama was the one who was shameless enough to let Shouyou look and touch. This time Shouyou didn’t try to preserve Kageyama’s dignity—or docility, he supposed—and sat up between Kageyama’s legs, looking down at sleek dark underwear. He moved his hands down Kageyama’s sides, his hips, framing the stark outline of his erection between his hands. Kageyama shifted restlessly under him, but didn’t tell him to stop, not even when Shouyou ran his thumbs up and down the hard length of him.

When Kageyama’s head fell back, the lines of his neck standing out, Shouyou had to swallow. Kageyama was beautiful—every inch of him. Shouyou knew that, loved that—loved it even more now that Kageyama was _his_ , kind of—but it made him feel especially short and plain. Kageyama was _weird_ for liking him so much. That much was obvious. Still, Kageyama would let him do whatever, and the thought made his ungodly body ache, willing to take whatever.

He slid his hands to Kageyama’s waistband, and when a silent glance for permission was met with an open-mouthed nod, Kageyama’s breath whooshing out, Shouyou drew the fabric down, pausing to take it off all the way. His own erection throbbed at the sight of Kageyama exposed like this, finally, dark hair below his belly button trailing down into coarse curls and then…

Shouyou swallowed. Kageyama really was perfect all over. His cock was swollen, flushed with colour, visibly aching as bad as Shouyou’s did but somehow managing to look good doing it. No wonder he wasn’t shy. Shouyou felt Kageyama’s gaze like a glowing brand against his face, but he didn’t look up to meet it. He just stared down, setting a hand against Kageyama’s length. The skin was hot to the touch, the iron beneath ungiving. After a moment Shouyou moved to slot his hips against Kageyama’s, setting himself against Kageyama’s cock with only briefs separating them. Kageyama’s head fell back against the pillow then; he was groaning something that was meant to be words.

Shouyou didn’t ask, at first. He was looking down at where their bodies joined, where his colourful briefs pressed against Kageyama’s hard cock, getting used to the sight of himself… _there_. He liked Kageyama obscene and vulnerable, available. Kageyama’s mumbling rose in pitch with a few slow rolls of Shouyou’s hips.

“What’s that?” Shouyou asked. He sounded drugged, even to his own ears.

“Are you gonna take them off?” Kageyama asked, and he didn’t sound better—though more weak than drugged.

The briefs. Shouyou didn’t want to feel vulnerable, but if he didn’t take them off he wouldn’t feel Kageyama’s skin against his there, and that seemed like such a waste. He pulled his hips back to hurry out of his underwear.

Predictably, Kageyama let his gaze snap up, unwilling to just lay back and miss the sight of newly exposed skin. He rose onto his elbows, looking and swallowing. Shouyou glared, but this time it was Kageyama avoiding eye contact. The only way to get Kageyama to stop looking seemed to be moving forward, slotting them back together again. With Kageyama’s head up, it was easy for Shouyou to plant his weight on either side and kiss him.

One of Kageyama’s hands clamped onto Shouyou’s hip at the clash of lips and tongues. He was breathing heavily, the kiss ragged. Shouyou liked the hard press of Kageyama’s fingers into his hip, uncontrolled. It was hard to believe Kageyama had been controlled at all for that long, if this was what lay beneath the surface. No wonder he’d kissed him automatically once.

Shouyou’s belly squirmed with butterflies, momentarily outweighing the _holy fuck-_ sensation of Kageyama’s erection against his, with nothing between them. Kageyama had wanted him like this for a long time. A really long time, longer even than Shouyou had wanted him back. It was mind-blowing, really.

The kiss broke. Kageyama was the one who broke it, falling back. In no time at all he was pulling Shouyou down and rolling them, hands urgent, first on Shouyou’s body then in his hair. The roll sent them too close to the edge, near falling, and after a moment of frenzied kissing Kageyama manhandled Shouyou back to the middle of the bed, as if Shouyou couldn’t move by himself.

“Hey,” Shouyou said, cut off by a kiss. Kageyama was tugging lightly at his hair, body held low to maximise contact as he rocked into him. It made Shouyou feel weak—but it didn’t stop him from arching into the contact, earning a low noise of appreciation.

“I mean it,” Shouyou said when Kageyama dipped away to nip at his ear, his neck. “I can move myself, Controlfreak-yama.”

“I know.”

“Then _let_ me!” With strength of will Shouyou moved them again, coming out on top, and was treated to a view of Kageyama’s eyes. They were dark, nearly all-black. Finally they met his.

“It’s still my turn,” Shouyou announced.

“It’s been your turn for ages.” Kageyama sounded choked.

“Maybe it’s always my turn,” Shouyou said, looking down between them with his weight on his outstretched arms. He was overwhelmed by the sight, how good Kageyama looked. This was the same Kageyama who walked home with him every day, who scolded, who was nonverbal in the mornings. That was the person looking up at him now through lust-hazy eyes, a hand coming up between them. It pressed softly to Shouyou’s chest, like Kageyama was having the same difficulty coming to terms with their new reality.

“It’s real, right?” Kageyama asked, on cue.

Shouyou let out a gusting laugh. “Like a serve to the back of the head.”

“Feels better. Looks better.”

Kageyama’s hair was a mess, half fallen back from his forehead. His eyelids were fluttering, nearly shutting as neither of them quite stopped moving, tiny bursts of sensation like sunlight beneath skin.

“You don’t get to say that. You look…” Kageyama pushed up, and Shouyou fell half forward. He pressed back, skin screaming. “...so good. What the hell, Kageyama.”

“You said you could move.”

“I _can_ move.” Shouyou rocked his hips to prove it, drawing a gratifying shudder from Kageyama. They’d been going slow, but Kageyama’s eyes shutting tight made it impossible to keep it that way. Shouyou wanted to push him the same way he always had, see what he could unlock in this genius, this perfect player. Any sign of weakness in Kageyama forced Shouyou to pounce, and somehow this fell into that. He wanted to draw out everything.

Kageyama’s knee shocked up when Shouyou dipped to suck on his nipple, hips moving in waves. Kageyama’s noises were cut-off, barely there things, but Shouyou heard every one. Each good, solid stroke of his cock against Kageyama’s brought shuddering breaths; each bad movement where the contact slipped a little was met with an almost pained noise deep in Kageyama’s throat. It was clear he was feeling every brush of contact, every graze of Shouyou’s teeth. He didn’t seem to mind when Shouyou sucked hard on his skin; his hands came up to grab at him, but not to pull him away. Shouyou’s arms would be bruised with Kageyama’s fingerprints tomorrow.

He’d have to practice with long sleeves, knowing what lay underneath. He shivered with anticipation, bit at the skin of Kageyama’s chest with new restlessness for tomorrow, the next day, the next day.

“Shou…” It was a choked-off gasp, one that zinged all the way down Shouyou’s spine.

“Yeah?”

“I’m… soon… if you don’t stop...”

Shouyou’s stomach squirmed with pleasure at what Kageyama was trying to say. That easily, with that little finesse. “That’s fine,” he said against Kageyama’s neck, sweeping his tongue along it. “You look so good, Kageyama. You feel so good.”

“ _What?_ ”

When Shouyou looked up, Kageyama was glaring down at him through half-closed eyes. Like there could be any question Shouyou meant it.

“What?” Shouyou countered. “I mean it…” He punctuated his words with a few slow, determined rolls of his hips, forcing Kageyama down into the pillow. Precum was making them slick, changing the feeling. It was a good feeling, the mess—made it realer, somehow. Like neither of them could ever deny this had happened after.

He didn’t think either of them wanted to deny it. But somehow the fear was there, a habit years in the making.

“I’m gonna,” Kageyama gasped, and Shouyou lifted up a little to watch. He looked at the mess of their cocks, sliding together, the slick shine under Kageyama’s belly button, all the muscles of Kageyama’s stomach moving to meet Shouyou’s thrusts, his flushed chest, his—

A hand grabbed at the back of Shouyou’s head, pulled him down. His forehead thudded into Kageyama’s chest, and another hand gripped bruisingly hard at his hip, keeping him moving slightly but mostly in place. Shouyou moved as much as he could, bit at Kageyama’s skin, but Kageyama’s grip didn’t waver. Hot wetness spilled between them a moment later, accompanied by Kageyama’s hissed breath, and thick triumph filled Shouyou’s veins. He’d made Kageyama come. He’d made _Kageyama_ come. _He’d_ made _Kageyama_ come—

Kageyama’s hand fisted in his hair, and Kageyama finally let go of his hip to set an arm like a bar around him, holding him close and still thrusting weakly. Shouyou burned, wanting to move more but unsure how. Everything was sticky-slick now, and it seemed rude to just go ahead right on top of Kageyama even if a few more strokes would finish him—even if part of him _wanted_ to finish like that, all over Kageyama’s perfect stomach.

 _Ew, Shouyou_ , Shouyou thought guiltily. But he didn’t really think it was ew, just—

“Can I?” Kageyama was mumbling, holding Shouyou even closer. “Will you let me…”

“Can you what?” Shouyou asked, blitzed with the nearness of his orgasm, and was pulled sideways. They rolled, and for the first time since coming Kageyama looked down at him, eyes still very dark.

It took Kageyama a long moment to manage the simple word: “Finish…”

Somehow, despite everything, Shouyou’s face flamed. Kageyama had already finished; what he meant was…

“I guess?” Shouyou gasped out, caught between horror and elation. What did he mean, finish him?

Kageyama pressed in to kiss him, hard. Shouyou didn’t mind the stickiness between them, the tacky slide of flesh against his. He supposed he was meant to think it was gross; at another time he might pretend he did, but right now he just didn’t have it in him.

He expected Kageyama to move against him like he had been, but Kageyama descended instead, no longer kissing him. Shouyou was kiss-drunk for a moment, made slow and stupid by arousal and triumph and the fact that he’d made Kageyama come, but there was just enough time to realise what was about to happen as Kageyama moved down his body.

“Not—your mouth—I’m gross! I’m super gross!” Even if a lot of the mess was Kageyama’s, Shouyou was slick with precum himself, and Kageyama wanted to put his mouth there like it was normal.

“It’s my turn,” Kageyama said simplistically. His eyes rose, though, to check the earnestness of the protest.

“You don’t think it’s gross?” Shouyou half-gasped. His cock was burning with the need to be touched, standing out embarrassingly tall, but Kageyama’s _mouth.._.

“You couldn’t be… to me…” Kageyama stopped making eye contact, looking down Shouyou’s body. Looking at him there. His eyes tracked up. He wetted his lips—obscene, given the circumstances, and Shouyou groaned. So Kageyama was just going to quote his own words back to him.

“You _want_ to?”

Another wetting of lips, then a simple: “Yeah.”

Kageyama had always been vulgar. It shouldn’t be any surprise that he was like this. “Fine! Just don’t complain if—”

Shouyou couldn’t finish the sentence. Hot wetness surrounded the tip of his cock, and his body shuddered like a struck gong. Holy shit. Holy shit. Kageyama was… Shouyou cried out, hands grabbing at the coverlet. Kageyama’s mouth moved down over him, close and perfect and deep, that vulgar mouth that was always scolding or calling plays or twisting in thought and Shouyou—Shouyou came, hard and instant, without warning, feeling like his soul was spilling down Kageyama’s throat alongside everything else. Embarrassment at the explosive orgasm tried to follow, but he hovered above his body as Kageyama half-choked on him, and all the spurting aftershocks that followed the initial explosion. Pleasure unlike any other rocked through Shouyou, took over, though it didn’t quite drown out the sounds of choking as he came and came, body buzzing after each shock, seemingly unending.

Shouyou covered his face with his hands and laughed, horrified and delighted at the same time. Trust him to make Kageyama choke. God, what a way to repay him for his willingness to put his mouth there. He should have warned, but it had been so sudden, and the words had barely been thought before he’d...

A sound made him uncover his face slightly. Kageyama was laughing too, mouth drawn away from Shouyou’s shiny, treacherous cock, a fist held to his tight-shut lips as he choke-laughed. His bare shoulders shocked with it. Shouyou had the horrifying impression Kageyama’s mouth was still full; he crowed with renewed laughter.

“Spit it out somewhere!” he said through tears. “Please. Oh my god, Kageyama.”

Kageyama shook his head, still laughing. Tears glistened in his eyes too, but that could be from the choking, and then he swallowed visibly and Shouyou entered a new dimension of horror and delight. _God_. Kageyama had to like him if he’d swallow that. Vulgar, vulgar, vulgar. Kageyama was vulgar. And obscene.

Shouyou shivered with adoration, even as Kageyama stretched out over his body and pinned him down with his greater weight, tacky cum between them. Kageyama grabbed Shouyou’s face and kissed him. Shouyou spluttered at this underhanded revenge—he could taste himself musky and strange on Kageyama’s tongue—but he couldn’t stop laughing enough to push Kageyama off, and anyway he didn’t want to. Kissing a naked and gross Kageyama was amazing. Shouyou’s hands moved up his sides, soft skin, all his now. His partner in every sense, and not someone he’d have to keep any more secrets from. Relief made him hug Kageyama about the middle hard, prompting a groan of compression.

“We should wash,” Shouyou said when Kageyama finally drew back. Kageyama’s neutral-happy face made Shouyou’s chest ache with warmth.

“Yeah,” Kageyama said. “Sorry.”

Shouyou’s breath whooshed out, halfway to being a laugh. “I don’t think you’re the one who needs to apologise.”

“You think I didn’t know what would happen?” Kageyama asked with a hint of a smile.

That smile could probably kill stronger men than Shouyou, especially in this context. He looked away, cheeks flushing. “Well, maybe! You can be dense.”

“No one’s that dense.”

That was probably true. Shouyou looked back at him. “And you still wanted to? That’s so dirty, Kageyama-kun.”

Kageyama’s cheeks went pink, but he looked totally unrepentant. “Is it?”

“Definitely.”

“I’ll do more, you know. A lot more.”

How could Kageyama just _say_ that? Shouyou shivered. “Not if I do it first.”

Kageyama slumped, all his weight falling onto Shouyou. Shouyou _ooph_ -ed. “Practice…” Kageyama mumbled.

“I know.” It seemed impossible, the thought of letting go, of being separate human beings again. He was always aware of the exact distances between himself and Kageyama, but now he knew there was warmth on both sides of the emptiness it would be… torturous. Just as it always had been, but different. He sighed.

Kageyama drew back, and Shouyou saw the red skin where he’d sucked or bitten too hard. Those would make everything worse, too: knowing Kageyama wore his marks on his skin beneath his exercise clothes.

Their eyes met, brown to blue. The knowledge of what they’d done together coursed between them, a soft current of wanting and tension, already tugging for more, again. Shouyou raised a hand to Kageyama’s cheek, and Kageyama leaned into it, gazing down at him with a neutrality Shouyou knew wasn’t neutral.

“Come on,” Shouyou said. They had to move or they wouldn’t get any sleep. And they’d be glued together. “You can soap me up if you want.”

“I’m not some stray dog that needs fed,” Kageyama said, apparently objecting to Shouyou’s tone.

“You’re not?”

Kageyama’s head ducked, hiding his smile. “Idiot.”

“So you are. A stray dog, I mean.”

“I’ll put soap in your eyes.”

“I’ll put soap in _your_ eyes.” He’d do no such thing, really. He loved Kageyama’s threatening stares too much.

Kageyama sat up, trailing a hand down Shouyou’s shoulder to his chest. His eyes followed the movement. He looked hungry again, already.

Shouyou swallowed fire. Kageyama looked hungry, and it awoke a corresponding hunger in him. That was fine. It was all fine. They could just… in the bathroom… his body ached with anticipation, renewed need. He sat up, kissed Kageyama on the side of his mouth.

“Let’s go, then.” He slid off the bed.

Kageyama grabbed him on his way past him, standing and holding him close. He pressed a kiss to the top of Shouyou’s head.

Shouyou shivered, but he wouldn’t let himself sound weak. “I know, I know, you’re tall, I get it, now let’s—”

Kageyama’s arms tightened. Shouyou was squished against deliciously bare, Kageyama-scented skin.

“Go,” Kageyama finished for him, grip loosening. “I know.”

He tipped Shouyou’s head up for one last kiss, hands gentle. His mouth was soft and warm and still slightly musky. Shouyou trembled meeting it.

“I’ll wash your mouth out too,” Shouyou threatened when they drew back. “With soap.”

“Mm,” Kageyama said, thumb caressing Shouyou’s cheek. He didn’t seem the least bit threatened. After a moment, he dipped to pick Shouyou up, pulling him to cling like a koala bear. Shouyou wrapped his legs around him obligingly.

It wasn’t the way Kageyama carried him to bed, usually. It probably wasn’t the way Kageyama looked at those times, though maybe now he’d be allowed to find out—but Shouyou’s insides were squirming with happiness, and there was a world to discover, and in the meantime he was wrapped around Kageyama exactly where he wanted to be.

It was more than enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kageyama wakes up to the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support! Cx I'm sorry this chapter took longer than I expected it to. In the meantime...
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY RC!!! (reallycorking.tumblr.com if people somehow missed out for the past 3 years—) A blessing to all kagehina shippers. A guiding light in kghn domesticity AND IN LIFE. Thank you for being in my life and making it better, more fun, more kagehina-ey. I hope you have an amazing day! (and pls don't feel like you have to read this extremely smutty chapter at work)
> 
> On we go...!

Tobio woke feeling like the world had changed, and opening his eyes did nothing to dispel it. It was dark still. He’d woken from a full bladder, not dawn or an alarm—but the back of Hinata’s bent head was in front of him, neck exposed, and what he couldn’t see in the dark his mind could fill in. More intimately, he could feel Hinata’s skin against him, hot as a furnace just now, the length of Hinata’s back up against his front, his arm around him, hand held between Hinata’s hands.

There wasn’t a whisper of space between them.

Relief like light and air flooded Tobio. It was all real, all part of his life now. His eyes ached with lack of sleep, and the time on the clock said there wouldn’t be enough time before the alarm to make up for it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He hadn’t been able to stop kissing and touching Hinata last night, not for a moment. Not when they were trying to get clean and ended up partway through round two before Tobio even realised he was ready again; not for the long minutes against the tile floor after they both lost control, and the time spent recovering; not when they actually showered and rinsed. Exhaustion had dragged them to sleep eventually, but even that seemed like a pause and not a stop.

They were naked in bed together, and if Tobio didn’t move soon—didn’t stop remembering last night—he wasn’t going to be able to pee.

Very, very slowly, he drew his arm away from where it lay draped around Hinata and rolled from the bed. There was no haze of sleep today, though he kept the lights off as usual. The measure didn’t help; he was awake from having woken to Hinata, and no darkness could change that. When he returned to the room, bladder empty, the excitement for today and tomorrow and the next day was making his heart thud hard. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to do. He just wanted to exist, he supposed, and have Hinata be there, and to know they were on the same page.

He moved under the covers, and Hinata turned. Tobio waited for his eyes to open, and a sleep-sigh did escape him, but the eyes stayed closed. This didn’t stop him from snuggling in under Tobio’s arm, stretching an arm of his own out across Tobio’s middle. Tobio let out a shuddering breath, overwhelmed. His skin had cooled outside of bed, and Hinata’s warmth sank into him now without the least barrier, replacing lost heat. Tobio looked at the clock again. Just an hour, and they’d have to get up for practice. He’d have to stop touching Hinata and act like a human being.

His mind was awake, but everything else was still tired. His eyes, his limbs. He’d be less coordinated in practice. So would Hinata—and Hinata didn’t really know how to hold back. With both of them distracted by… Tobio paused, mind boggled, then allowed the thought to continue. With both of them distracted by each other, and overtired, accidents were more likely. Going to practice might be worse for their overall performance than not going.

It was just one practice.

He picked up his phone, the only alarm in the room, and dismissed the upcoming ringer fifty-seven minutes before it rang. He set the phone down and turned his head, nose pressing into Hinata’s curls. He let out a breath.

Hinata mumbled in his sleep. Nothing distinct, and not a new habit. All their previous training camps rose in Tobio’s memory: all those nights spent next to each other, Hinata out of his reach. The annoying tossing and turning some nights, the mumbling on others, all the faces he made. Tobio had watched, even before he knew why.

Now he knew why he watched, all those nights, and he wasn’t done looking.

Hinata sighed, moving against him.

“Kageyama…”

Tobio looked down at his face. Hinata’s eyes were still closed.

“How long d’we have? Can you set an alarm before th’ alarm? I wanna… one more time before we get up…”

Tobio’s stomach jumped, and he had to clamp his teeth around a reflexive yell of _dumbass_ trying to work its way out his throat. Flutters coarsed from his stomach to his limbs, leaving him feeling itchy and restless. _One more time before we get up_. Hinata was half-unconscious with tiredness and still wanted to make sure they got time enough to explore each other before practice.

He was glad he’d turned off the alarm, wary as it made him. Would Hinata approve? Tobio wasn’t giving him a choice to disapprove.

“Tobio…” There was a shifting of Hinata’s hips against him. “Alarm? Or should we wake up now—”

Tobio shushed him. “I have an alarm set. We have plenty of time. Sleep, idiot.”

Hinata mumbled assent, and his head dipped down again in sleep. Tobio wasn’t entirely convinced he’d been awake—not fully awake, anyway—but some of the message had sunk in. Tobio breathed in against his curls, soft and ticklish against his nose. The bit of Hinata’s weight pressing into him was comforting, and as long as he didn’t think about yesterday, or feel now too hard, he’d be able to calm down.

He pulled his mind back and back, until he somehow ended up in the memories of before Hinata had ambushed him in his room. The days before, when he’d been spiralling wildly, pulling closer into himself. Imagining his life without Hinata—because Hinata wasn’t honest with him, because Hinata wasn’t who he thought he was—had pushed him into a grey future he’d expected and dreaded. It had pushed him there prematurely, with a different cause. He hadn’t been prepared.

His arms tightened around a sleeping, naked Hinata. He hadn’t been prepared for this either, but being caught off guard here wasn’t bad. After yesterday’s revelation, he’d been ready to live on the high for however long, had assumed sex would be too much too soon, but Hinata didn’t care for convention. Of course he didn’t.

Tobio was grateful. He still remembered bathroom tile against his knees, the way Hinata clung to him. Then before that, the long moments of getting to _look._ Of touching, tasting. It was beyond any fantasy. Worth missing practice.

Guilt drew him up. _Sleep, then_. If he slept, he could wake up again. Hinata would still be there.

It took a while. He wanted to glory in the press of Hinata against him—but he’d just have to trust he’d have other chances. His body needed sleep, even if it said all it needed was more of this. He looked one more time at Hinata’s sleeping face and closed his eyes resolutely.

 _Later_ , he promised himself.

Eventually, he slept.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tobio woke to distressed whining, his body fairly rested, his eyes no longer one big ache. He blinked them awake and saw Hinata sitting up, Tobio’s phone in his hands. The glances he cast were furtive, scared.

“G… G’morning, Kageyama-kun!”

A stiff smile accompanied the greeting. Tobio rubbed his face to try and get some of the sleep out; it only kind of worked.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ha! Wrong? Nothing’s wrong! It’s, uh, we can still make it! To… the second half…”

Tobio reached for his phone, and after a brief struggle Hinata released it. He looked at the time. Hinata meant they could make it to the second half of practice, if they hurried now, and he was stretching the truth; they could only really make it to the last third of practice.

Tobio set the phone down on the nightstand face-down. Hinata stared, waiting for something—some reaction. Tobio loved Hinata’s face just then: totally open, totally focused on him. It almost made him want to laugh. Laughter seemed a lot closer to the surface in general, just then.

“I turned off my alarm,” he told him. “You needed rest.”

Hinata stared harder.

Tobio cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable—aware he maybe shouldn’t have decided for Hinata without asking. “Sorry for not telling you, but it was for the best.”

“You… _decided_ to skip practice?”

“And classes,” Tobio said.

“Classes haven’t started yet,” Hinata mumbled vaguely—and then he blinked, and began to smile. “Wh—classes too?”

“Well, aren’t you?” If Hinata went to classes, he supposed he’d go too.

“I’m skipping!” Hinata yelled, scooting closer. It occurred to Tobio Hinata had pulled on his underwear from yesterday—but it wouldn’t take long to take clothes back off. “Definitely. I’d already… decided… It just made sense, you know?”

A furtive look. Hinata was lying, but Tobio couldn’t find it inside himself to call him out for it. He found himself smiling back. “Yeah?”

“Not cause you are. Just wanted to.”

Hinata’s mumbled voice, deeper with the lie of it, forced the laugh from Tobio. He couldn’t help it; he pressed the back of his hand against his mouth to stop it, but the laugh wouldn’t stay in, and Hinata pulled his hand away and joined in, or at least grinned. Tobio felt his face heat. He was embarrassed, but it didn’t feel as bad as it usually did. He was naked, too, and that didn’t feel as vulnerable. He just felt… easy.

Hinata seemed to have softened, or un-panicked, and so Tobio grabbed him under the arms and lifted him, laying him down on the bed next to him, on top of the blankets. The blankets were between them like this, in the way, and Tobio solved it by getting out from under them. He crawled onto Hinata, and Hinata just watched him, eyes wide, mouth unusually silent. It was only a little worrying.

“You’re naked,” Hinata said when Tobio hovered above him, most of their bodies in contact.

“Mm.” Was that a problem?

Hinata stopped making eye contact; his eyes skirted down, looking between them. His cheeks flushed with colour, the effect warming Tobio throughout. The cold air of the room against his back was nothing, even as it made his skin stand up in goosebumps. He remembered the revelations of last night, how Hinata had sighed and fallen into him at times, pushed back and dominated at others. If Hinata was displeased with any part of him, it wasn’t apparent.

Tobio wanted to kiss him—but he hadn’t brushed his teeth. His mouth didn’t feel too gross, but he didn’t want to subject Hinata to anything that’d turn him off. He contented himself with dipping down on one side of Hinata’s head, brushing his lips against Hinata’s temple. Hinata shivered beneath him.

“Hey,” Hinata said, head shifting. “Are we gonna? Again?”

Tobio wanted to say _yes, now, immediately_ , but what he found himself saying was, “Need the toilet.”

“ _Go_ then,” Hinata said, sounding horror-struck as he moved away. Another shiver seemed to go through him as their eyes met. “Don’t just hold it in! It’s not health—”

Tobio put a hand over Hinata’s mouth, annoyed at himself. He could have just gone for it. What did breath matter? But he got up anyway, and went to the bathroom for all the normal stuff, even splashed his face with water. When he joined Hinata on the bed his breath was minty fresh, unobjectionable. He lay down next to Hinata on his side, watched him—watched his face colour.

“Hey,” Hinata said.

“Morning.”

“G’morning, Kageyama-kun.”

Tobio smiled; he couldn’t help it. Earlier, the greeting had been panicked. Now it was happy, lazy. He could imagine being greeted this way morning after morning, Hinata’s brown eyes regarding him steadily—expectantly. Hinata always expected things from him. He didn’t want that to change.

“You already said good morning,” Tobio informed him.

“I’ll say it as often as I like.” Hinata looked away, then met Tobio’s gaze with a hint of challenge. “To make up for the last few days.”

Hinata had greeted him the past days; Tobio had just neglected to greet him back in anything but pained grunts. He’d probably be making up for that for a while, but he didn’t care. All that kind of stuff felt far away, and he reached out between them, traced an index finger over Hinata’s lower lip. It was soft, strange, the texture of it. Not like Hinata’s hard, calloused hands meeting his in a high five, or grabbing him around the wrist to pull him somewhere. A much softer part of Hinata, more intimate. A part he never could have touched like this before. He moved to use his thumb instead. Hinata didn’t look away from his eyes; Tobio could see it peripherally, but his gaze was locked to Hinata’s lips.

“What do you want me to do?” Tobio asked. A quick glance up, then away. “To make up for the past few days.”

There was a beat of silence. “You mean it?”

Tobio barely understood his own impulse to offer this. Since when did he hand Hinata openings to demand things and boss him around? Hinata took enough from him as it was, but something in him cried out to give more, offer more—if only Hinata would tell him what to give.

“Yeah,” Tobio said, right as Hinata’s finger came to poke between his brows—against the line there, probably. Tobio tried to relax his face.

“You really feel bad?” Hinata was grinning, so Tobio didn’t feel bad at all—but he was dying to know what Hinata would ask for, what he could possibly want.

“Maybe. Tell me anyway.”

“So you might say no,” Hinata said, sounding disappointed.

Tobio’s pulse picked up. “I won’t say no.”

Perhaps Hinata sensed the truth of his words, or else he was willing to risk it; he rolled, moving to cover Tobio’s body with his own. The force of it sent Tobio onto his back, and Hinata reached for his wrists, pinned them above his head and looked down giddily.

Tobio opened his mouth to ask for verbal directions—but he didn’t get a chance to speak. Hinata leaned down, hot mouth meeting his in a clumsy kiss that seemed to slow time. At first Tobio could barely think, caught in taste and sensation and the fact that last night had resumed, but then his mind adjusted. This was the new normal: Hinata heavy and willing above him, dominating him in an all-new way. Part of him wanted to fight it, show Hinata he couldn’t be controlled—and part of him wanted to let it go on, and on, and on.

When Hinata drew back from the kiss Tobio tried to follow, but Hinata’s grin forbade it. He lorded over him, hands still on his wrists.

“If you won’t say no, then… don’t move.”

It took Tobio’s mind a moment to catch up. “Don’t move? That’s what you want?”

“One of the things I want.” Hinata’s eyes were heavy-lidded. “Well? D’you promise?”

It went against the grain to promise something like that. “For how long?”

Hinata glanced at the clock. “...two minutes.”

Tobio noted the time. “Okay.”

“Wait for the minute to change,” Hinata said reasonably. “So we know it’s two for sure.”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna do what you did last night. With my mouth.”

Everything inside Tobio seized. He felt his cheeks flush. “What?”

“It’s only fair. I’m gonna do it. And you have to let me.”

 _Have to let me._ Like it wasn’t an image that compelled him in dreams all the time: Hinata moving down his body, face rosy, mouth opening against his cock…

Tobio groaned, the flash of arousal continuing what the kiss started. He wanted it. He wanted it desperately—but how to stay still? How to deal with the fantasy becoming reality?

“There has to be something else you want more,” Tobio said. Shouyou’s hands moved from his wrists to press palm-to-palm to his, fingers entwining. It would have been sensual in someone else, but in Hinata it was intimidating—something that established control. The sly grin he wore didn’t help.

“There’s lots I want to do,” Hinata said. Tobio opened his mouth to respond, but the minute display changed from oh-nine to ten, and then Hinata was dipping down—at first Tobio thought to kiss him, but he bypassed his face, breathing out against his neck. Tobio stiffened.

“No moving,” Hinata reminded.

“I didn’t move.”

“You jerked, sorta.” Hinata was moving down his body already, hands no longer pinning his down. Tobio kept them above his head in paralysed acquiescence anyway, as if the promise not to move meant something. He was sure Hinata would cheat, in his position.

Or… would he? If Tobio _told_ him to—

“You’re so warm,” Hinata sighed against his chest. He laid his cheek against it. “How are you so warm?”

Tobio was _too_ warm, as a matter of fact, and painfully hard despite the lack of intentional contact. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Hinata had said, what he’d promised—threatened?— to do. More than that, he couldn’t keep his hips totally still, no matter how hard he tried. They jerked against Hinata’s body, especially when Hinata moved to run his tongue over Tobio’s nipple. Hinata’s mouth was hot as a brand, and Tobio felt marked by it. His spine arched under Hinata, and Hinata bit just slightly.

“You’re moving again,” Hinata said—but he sounded smug rather than annoyed.

“I’m not.” Tobio’s other nipple ached. He wasn’t sure how it was that attention on one side of his body could make the other side go sensitive, almost sore with longing, but Hinata seemed to sense it. The heat of his mouth came down where Tobio needed it, and Tobio released a breath, hips jerking again.

“So sensitive,” Hinata mumbled, obviously pleased. “So beautiful.”

Tobio raised his head, though all he saw was the top of Hinata’s. _Beautiful?_ That seemed like a weird thing to say to another guy. How could Hinata even… _beautiful_ , of all things?

“You think I’m…” Tobio said, voice so low he wasn’t sure Hinata would hear.

Hinata looked up. “D’you look at yourself ever?”

Tobio blinked at him. “I… not really.” He saw himself all the time. He looked in mirrors, noted the effectiveness of workouts, noticed when his clothes started fitting him differently in various ways. But beauty didn’t figure into it. It wasn’t something he’d even thought he could or ought to aspire to—that was for women and landscapes.

Didn’t he think Hinata was beautiful, though? His large, slanted eyes, the slope of his neck as he tilted his head this way or that—his laugh, his bone structure, his muscles…

 _Oh_ , Tobio thought. Hinata descended, done with the conversation, and Tobio didn’t say anything—didn’t mention anything about beauty, or how he thought the word fit Hinata better. He writhed with it, though, as much as he could without drawing Hinata’s ire. Thankfully Hinata was distracted, no longer a breath from scolding; he’d lifted off, and he was looking at Tobio’s hard length in silence punctuated only by Tobio’s loud breathing. His scrutiny made Tobio’s throat lock up. He’d wanted to be inside of Hinata so often, in so many ways. He’d fantasised for years—and now it felt as if all those guilty cravings might be written onto his flushed skin for Hinata to read and be horrified by.

 _Look at all the ways I’ve wanted you_ , Tobio’s body seemed to be crying out. He pushed his hands into his hair for something to hold onto, so he wouldn’t jerk his hips up desperately like he wanted to. A glance at the clock caught ten switching to eleven. Just one more minute.

“Kageyama…”

Tobio jolted. Hinata hadn’t looked away from his member, was for all intents and purposes talking to _it_ rather than him. “Nh?”

Hinata slowly, _slowly_ dragged his eyes up, sounding drugged when he spoke. “I want you,” he sighed, meeting Tobio’s gaze for only a moment—and then he was leaning in to press a kiss to Tobio’s shaft, mouth soft and slow. He mumbled something else after the kiss, and it took a while before Tobio’s oxygen-deprived brain could puzzle out the words as, “I want you so bad”.

The fact that Hinata hadn’t made eye contact for the second part of this sentiment wasn’t lost on Tobio. The thought of Hinata wanting him—wanting this part of him—was almost too much to bear. He clamped his jaw shut as wet heat descended over his cockhead, too much too soon after Hinata’s declarations. Being wanted was a new feeling, one he’d never expected to experience with Hinata, and he was afraid he’d come just with the elation of it, with the thought of Hinata wanting him in his mouth.

It wasn’t just a thought, either; from Hinata’s moaned breath it seemed he really did want it. Tobio arched, bit his lip. How was he meant to keep his hands off? He wanted to grab Hinata, force him up against him, take him somehow, some way. See if he really meant his _I want you_ s. He writhed under the hot wetness of Hinata’s mouth, and Hinata’s slack lips tightened perhaps in response, to keep him in position. Tobio groaned.

Hinata, catching on, dipped down. He kept his mouth firm now, and Tobio felt the way his tongue pressed up against the underside of his cock. He felt swollen and achey, wanting to thrust up but knowing it would choke Hinata.

A weird impulse to see if Hinata would cough and berate him played in his mind. He didn’t want to hurt Hinata—so why did the thought of Hinata choking on him make arousal shudder harder through him? He shifted restlessly, and movement in his peripheral vision released him from his promise. Two minutes had passed on the clock. He reached down, needing to see Hinata’s eyes to dispel the image of him choking. When he fisted a hand in Hinata’s hair Hinata looked up.

He didn’t pull off, exactly. The tip of Tobio’s cock laid against his open mouth, still, framed by the blush of his face. Hinata’s hair was disheveled, his lips pink and shiny, and Tobio wanted him with the same ragged need he always had.

The weird, sadistic urge from earlier told him to force Hinata down, see how far he would go, how deep he would take him—but he beat it back, allowed it to be overpowered by his need to be closer, to reassure himself who this was, what they were to each other. He pulled at Hinata, trying to lift him unsuccessfully. When it didn’t work he sat up and—when Hinata resisted—grabbed under Hinata’s armpits and lifted him until he was straddling him. He didn’t give Hinata time to complain; he brought their mouths together, kissed him hard with all the need bubbling inside of him, hands urgent.

“Wasn’t done,” Hinata sighed against his mouth when Tobio allowed the tiniest bit of distance. Tobio shivered. He wanted Hinata not to be done with him, but the violent tint to his fantasies was strange. As if all his needs over the years had built up to something dangerous.

He’d been violent towards Hinata years ago, when they first met—but that was different. _That_ didn’t worry him. But he wanted… god he wanted…

He stroked Hinata’s face, his hair, kissed him again like it was the most important thing in the world. It felt like the most important thing in the world, all hot and urgent. Hinata pressed back into him, pleasure apparent in his responding body, in the sounds he made, but it only made the need inside of Tobio more desperate, more dangerous. He needed to beat it back down.

“Sh… Shouyou.”

Hinata bit his neck, then licked over the spot. It didn’t make anything easier; the pressure worsened inside of him.

“Do you—can we—do…”

Hinata rocked up against him, making him gasp. He was doing it on purpose, distracting Tobio from his senses. Either that or… or he was doing it for himself. For his own pleasure. That thought was almost worse.

“Hinata.”

Tobio set his hands on Hinata’s shoulders, pushing him away enough to see his face. Hinata’s pupils were huge, cheeks flushed. He shifted again, like he couldn’t resist torturing Tobio for even a second.

“What?” he asked breathily.

“What do you want?” Tobio blurted.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Hinata wasn’t making fun of him; he looked genuinely confused to be asked, still caught up in moving against him, the rough drag of cotton briefs the one thing separating them.

 _Sex_. Yeah, but what kind? Could he… did he…

The haze over Hinata seemed to dissipate; he stilled, taking in Tobio’s expression. His mouth opened, but no questions fell out, no smartass comments. Tobio felt seen in the worst way, his guilty imaginings written on his face this time. He swallowed, wanting to apologise somehow. He didn’t want how much he wanted Hinata to morph into this weird need to dominate him, but he wanted… a lot. He wanted a lot of things.

“What are you asking?” Hinata asked. “What do you want? I want it too, whatever it is.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Is it butt stuff? Because yeah, sure, I’m up for—”

Tobio clamped a hand over Hinata’s mouth. “Don’t say it!”

Hinata’s eyebrows rose judgmentally for all that he couldn’t speak. Tobio released his hold just a little, though he kept the hand hovering so he could clamp it back down if he needed to.

“Don’t say it, just do it?” Hinata asked, unimpressed.

“I don’t even know how, it was a stupid idea, just forget I said—”

“I know how.”

Everything inside of Tobio seemed to freeze—except his thoughts, which raced ahead. Hinata had liked him for a while. He’d said so—but he’d also thought Tobio hated love, and that they’d never be together like this. If Hinata had been with other people it was no one’s business, especially not Tobio’s, but the thought of it stole his reason away. What late night had it been? Had Tobio noticed anything was different? Did Tobio know the guy Hinata had been with? Would Hinata tell him if he asked? Would Tobio even dare to ask, knowing he’d never be able to stop imagining it once he knew?

“I’ve never _done_ it,” Hinata clarified. “Not with another person. But… uh…”

“You haven’t done it?”

“Not with someone else, yeah, I said that.” He took in Tobio’s expression, and slowly realisation dawned, his eyes widening with delight. “Were you jealous? Did you think—geez, Kageyama-kun! Do I seem like I’ve done all this before? Am I that good?”

His cheeriness would have been a lot more annoying if Tobio hadn’t been weak with relief. _He didn’t do it_ . There wasn’t some guy out there who’d known Hinata in a way he never had, in a way he’d despaired to. He hadn’t been his stupid people-blind self, neutrally welcoming Hinata home when Hinata had just lost his virginity. _Thank god_.

“Not in the least,” Tobio said. He glared, though his heart wasn’t in it. “You didn’t finish your sentence. You’ve never done it with someone else, but…?”

“I guess I…”

Hinata’s embarrassment pushed control back into Tobio’s open hands. Tobio felt himself smiling, enjoying Hinata’s ducked head, his flushed cheeks. His stomach squirmed with expectation. What was Hinata working up to? With this preamble, it had to be something good.

Hinata looked up and saw Tobio’s grin. He flushed harder. “I just imagined it, okay!”

“Imagined _what_? You haven’t told me anything.”

Hinata groaned. “You! Doing me! Like that! Like it was you instead of the t… the toy.”

It was Tobio’s turn to be embarrassed. The wave of pleasure that hit him was like nothing else. All this time he’d been with Hinata like he wanted after all—he just hadn’t known it. He thunked his head down on Hinata’s bare shoulder, overcome with a mix of triumph and awkwardness. “Toy?” he said, barely able to form the word.

“It’s normal!” Hinata defended. “I just wanted—sometimes it wasn’t enough to just—ugh! Of course you’d be stupid about this.”

“I’m not being anything about this,” Tobio said reasonably. He hadn’t said anything weird. He drew back to look at Hinata. Hinata stared back at him for a moment, accusatory—then softened. His cheeks were still red, but he at least seemed to accept Tobio wasn’t making fun.

Tobio _wasn’t_ making fun.

“Let’s do it,” Hinata said. “It’s—I have stuff. In my bedroom.”

“Do you want to move there?”

“It’s only fair,” Hinata said.

Tobio was already standing, with Hinata wrapping his legs firmly around him, but Tobio still asked, “Fair?”

“Why should your bed get all the action?”

“Stupid. It just gets the sheets dirty.”

“I want my sheets dirty!”

“Gross,” Tobio said, without heat. He could kind of understand, but it was better to pretend he couldn’t. Hinata might turn around and say _he_ was gross if he agreed.

“Whatever,” Hinata said. “You thought I was some kind of sex god who’d already done it lots before. Cause I’m so good. So you can shut up!”

Tobio should have been annoyed, but mostly he wanted to laugh. He didn’t, though; he focused on laying Hinata down gently, with something like reverence. Hinata _wasn’t_ some kind of sex god—and that was what made it so good. The fact that Hinata was still himself, still the worst and best thing in the world. It was like how the sun could give you a beautiful, clear day but also leave you itchy and irritable and sunburnt.

Hinata was breathing out now, eyes closing, head laid back against his pillow. His face was flushed, and Tobio burned with sudden curiosity to know what was happening behind his eyelids. He stared down, waiting, Hinata’s legs around his waist loosening gradually.

Hinata’s eyes fluttered open, and his gaze met Tobio’s—read the question in them. He smiled slightly.

“Can’t believe we’re here,” he said.

“In your bed?”

“Yeah. It seems...”

“Yeah?”

Hinata’s pause became a stutter of breath as Tobio kissed the side of his neck. “You wanting this, it feels like I’m making it up.”

The pit of Tobio’s stomach was filled with—not butterflies, but something similarly worrying. He hid his face in the crook of Hinata’s shoulder. “Why would I not?”

“I—why would you! Why would anyone!”

It was so stupid. So ridiculous. Like Hinata wasn’t the most alive thing or person in any given space he happened to occupy. His determined expressions on the court were a touchstone for Tobio, and his body…

God. His body. It was under Tobio now, skin sliding against skin, and it wanted him back. That was the amazing thing: it wanted him back. A foot hooked around Tobio’s leg and kept him close; a hand grabbed his bicep and held tight. Tobio had been so ready to be pushed away the moment any of this was known, but instead Hinata had pulled at him, poked and prodded and laughed and pressed close.

“It’s fine if you don’t understand,” Tobio said. He didn’t think he could explain how much Hinata’s body excited him—not without sounding like a total pervert. And Hinata was sure to call him out on it.

“Mean! Mean Kageyama-kun!”

Tobio ignored him, descending down his body to press kisses against his chest and stomach. He touched his hands to Hinata’s briefs and looked up, asking and not asking.

Hinata nodded a few times fast, and Tobio drew the briefs down and off. When he slotted their hips back together, it was to renewed sensation—as if waking up in the morning was the only thing needed to reset his nerves, make everything new again. Hinata was silk-soft where coarse hair didn’t scratch against Tobio’s skin, and even the coarse feeling was good. This was why Tobio loved Hinata not being a sex god: because the bad bits were as good as the good ones. Better, almost.

“Are you gonna—” Hinata started, then: “Are we gonna…”

“Tell me how,” Tobio breathed, moving against him. Their eyes met for a moment, both breathless, and Tobio felt seen in the worst—best?—way.

Hinata’s breath shuddered out. “You seriously don’t know?”

“I do!” Tobio said, because of the challenge in Hinata’s voice—and he _did_ know. He knew how it was supposed to work, but theory and practice seemed so distant from each other. Then again—when had doing stuff with his hands ever been hard for him? He… knew himself.

If he thought about it like that, it seemed easy.

Hinata was moving under him, stretching to grab something from his nightstand. The _stuff_ he’d mentioned was just a slightly slimy tube of lubricant, which he threw onto the bed like he couldn’t care less if it was used—like it was distant from him.

Tobio didn’t need years of experience with Hinata’s moods to realise what his movements meant. Hinata was embarrassed, and trying not to show it.

It was… cute. He hadn’t expected Hinata to be cute at a moment like this, but it made sense. It made his nervousness go away; it was just him and Hinata, and Hinata was… himself. Everything Tobio wanted, but also the person who’d find fault with anything. It lowered the pressure, somehow. It made him ache to think Hinata wanted him enough to press past his own stupid hangups.

Hinata, who always checked his bad language. Who poked and prodded at every sore spot, and never let Tobio get away with anything—that was who moved under him, tilting his hips up in impatience, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open. Tobio pressed his mouth down against it, forced his tongue in. He hoped the claim was clear—but if Hinata recognised the move, he didn’t allow it to be one-sided. His tongue pushed back against Tobio’s, hot and wet and desperate. Soon they were gasping again, moving together in a mix of heat and confusion.

“You don’t need to go?” Tobio asked. Last chance for Hinata to say no, at least before they went one step further.

“ _I don’t!_ ” Hinata said, sounding offended—as if needing to poop was a character flaw. Tobio would talk to him about how silly it was later, when it wasn’t convenient to just let it be. He felt Hinata’s hot breath against his face and took the tacky lube bottle, squirted cool liquid over his fingers. Hinata’s breathing was coming faster, but not in a panicky way. Each breath was heavy, a little desperate.

Tobio looked down between them and managed not to get goop all over Hinata’s thighs as he found the juncture between them, the place where…

Was this real? Was it happening? It seemed impossible Hinata would allow it. But then—if Hinata asked?

Tobio would probably do anything, as long as he was allowed to complain about it if it went south.

Hinata shivered when his fingers made contact—a little flinch Tobio worried about, but it phased into a shiver. Was that good? Or at least not bad?

“You okay?” he asked.

“ _Yes._ ”

Hinata’s eyes were pressed closed, which told Tobio nothing, but the way he bit his lip seemed—wanting. Ready. The impatient way he hooked a leg seemed indicative of his impatience, and Tobio let Hinata’s body guide him—guide his fingers _in_.

Once there, Hinata’s responses were unexpected. Tobio had expected discomfort, at least, but everything made him bite at his lip more, rake fingers across Tobio’s back, look up with narrowed eyes and let out shuddering breaths, gaze accusatory but wanting.

It didn’t seem like any of this was weird to Hinata. If anything, Hinata was under a trance, totally unembarrassed now they’d started. Tobio’s face felt flushed.

“What?” Tobio asked after a particularly hard glare. He was breathing heavily himself, no matter how he tried not to be. It was impossible to be unaffected; the years of longing made it that way. His fingers were inside of Hinata, stroking and pistoning. He couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.

“Don’t enjoy it so much,” Hinata said. His eyes were heavy-lidded. “You look like a pervert.”

 _He_ looked like a pervert? Tobio looked like a pervert? Hinata was the one writhing and going red all the way down to his chest, making these _sounds_ —Tobio glared back.

“I can stop,” he assured Hinata.

“ _Don’t_.”

Smugness filled Tobio, or at least pushed at the arousal that was already filling him. “Keep going, but don’t enjoy it?”

Hinata’s glare said he’d challenge him—but then Hinata’s head tipped back. He laughed. “ _Fine_ , it was stupid. Don’t stop. Don’t not enjoy it.”

Tobio gazed down at him. “I look like a pervert, though.”

“It’s fine.”

Tobio’s head dropped into the crook of Hinata’s neck, so Hinata wouldn’t see him laughing and accuse him of something more. _It’s fine_. The resentment in that… Hinata was so willing and unwilling at the same time—like his need for lording over Tobio was warring with other needs. Tobio enjoyed the heady sensation of power, even though he was just as out of control as Hinata was. He pushed his fingers into him, into the lubed-up mess of him.

It seemed… just about now…

“‘M ready,” Hinata breathed, right as Tobio thought it.

Was that possible?

“K… Kageyama. C’mon.”

Tobio continued pistoning his fingers, imagining the heat and pressure around himself.

“Don’t be a dick about this!” Hinata commanded, and Tobio drew back—his face and his fingers. The air between them was thick with expectation.

“Yeah?” Tobio asked. He wasn’t teasing now, looking into familiar brown eyes for a sign of hesitation—anything. But Hinata looked so sure.

“I wanna,” Hinata said. “ _Of course_.”

Hinata was ready, but Tobio wasn’t. He was afraid he’d do something embarrassing, like come after a second. Like not hit the right angle and just make Hinata frustrated and uncomfortable. Why had he wanted this? He didn’t know how to do it. Even as he slathered more lube onto himself, that thought persisted: _I don’t know how to do this_.

It sucked: the person who’d make this terrible for him was also the person who’d make it the best, the only person he wanted to do it with.

Hinata squirmed. “Are you gonna…?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Tobio asked, flustered.

“Taking forever!”

“Are you that impatient?”

Hinata glared. “Yeah! You would be too!”

The glare was cleared by a blink.

“Oh,” Hinata said, looking up. Tobio didn’t know what his face was doing, but he suspected he looked unimpressed.

 _Yeah_ , he thought. _Who waited longer?_

Not that he’d been waiting. It hadn’t been a _wait_. It had been an existence without a scheduled end date. He’d never expected anything.

Getting what he’d never expected to receive made everything seem more precious, more out of kilter. He lined himself up, caught by the sense of unreality. Hinata lifted himself up, unasked for, and then it seemed almost second nature to just… move forward. It wasn’t difficult, not like he’d worried it would be. There was resistance, and pressure, and… Tobio closed his eyes tightly. It was so hot, so perfectly fitted to him. He clenched his jaw, swallowed. He heard Hinata’s breathing, his little noises—not like he was in pain, but like he felt it too. Tobio let his face fall until his forehead was pressed to Hinata’s, and Hinata clutched at him.

“Ha,” Hinata said. Tobio wasn’t sure what he was meant to say in return.

“Ha,” Hinata repeated. “You fit.”

His triumphant tone almost undid Tobio. Tobio let out the breath he’d been holding, and shoved forward to punish Hinata for his idiocy. By Hinata’s response, it wasn’t quite a punishment; he seemed to be laughing slightly, and his heel was digging into Tobio. The laughter and the heel spurred him on, and then he was seated, completely, nowhere else to go. All of him was swallowed up.

“Congratulate me,” Hinata sighed.

Why should Hinata be the one to be congratulated? “Congratulations,” Tobio told him. “You’re an idiot.”

“ _Haaa_ , that’s me.”

Tobio swallowed the _I love you_ that wanted to follow this confession. He wasn’t even sure why he didn’t say it—except that he was vulnerable enough like this. He settled for sucking a bruise into Hinata’s neck, too hard and not hard enough.

Hinata’s chest pressed against his, skin to skin. Hot-white pleasure was pounding through Tobio’s veins, flowing outward from where he was buried inside of Hinata, and there was no reprieve where Hinata lay still; he was grabbing and moving from the first, a hand coming up to pull at Tobio’s hair possessively.

“Move,” Hinata commanded. Easier said than done, with every nerve screaming, but Tobio let his hips pull back cautiously—then slid back to slot with Hinata’s. Pleasure sparked again, wilder, threatening to overwhelm his sense and his senses; he shuddered with it. He loved being this close to Hinata, not just inside but surrounded—legs and arms and hands. There was pain from his hair being pulled, from nails scratching him, but it hardly registered.

He let the rhythm take him, let Hinata’s squirming guide him. He knew he was onto something when Hinata started to mumble incoherent approval, his hips canting up. With some difficulty, Tobio set his weight on one elbow and used his free hand to lift Hinata’s lower body the way Hinata seemed to want to be lifted. It… felt right, and the way Hinata’s breath caught then sped said it was the right thing to do.

 _‘You fit’_ echoed in Tobio’s head, made every cresting wave of their bodies together a triumph. It had been the perfect thing to say, or the worst thing—he couldn’t put it from his mind, couldn’t stop a stray thought that insisted they’d been made to fit. Hinata had always made Tobio more _himself_ : more prickly, more excited, more heartbroken. They amplified each other, pushed and pulled.

It was just sex. It was meant to be _just_ something, but it didn’t feel like just anything. It felt perfect—except that he was going to come, and Hinata hadn’t yet, and that meant he was terrible at this and Hinata would tease him for the rest of their life together, however long it might be.

He slowed, his entire body aching to find his release as his mind—and a familiar desire not to be outdone—kept him back. It was torture to slow, to not chase that high, not bury himself deep and hard and _now_ —but he couldn’t come before Hinata did. Every single thing he’d read said it was wrong to come first.

Hinata cursed a stream of curses, grabbing at him. “Don’t—keep—what! Why would you stop _now_!”

He sounded as congested as he did before crying, and as desperate too.

Tobio gave a conciliatory stutter of his hips, glancing down at Hinata’s cock lying flushed and swollen against his abdomen, a glistening trail at the tip. If he could reach it without dropping Hinata’s hips or letting his weight fall down on top of him he could make him come—but it seemed like an impossible feat of acrobatics. He tried to clamp down on his own desperation before another thrust, but Hinata felt too good—too everywhere and amazing. He couldn’t keep it up without losing.

“Rolling,” he informed Hinata. If he was below Hinata, he could reach. Hinata’s eyes opened—it had barely registered they were closed, before—and he glared for a moment.

“You’re giving up now?”

It wasn’t giving up. It was a strategy. “No.”

Through willpower and strength—and, admittedly, Hinata’s help—he managed to roll them without falling or detaching. Hinata stayed tight and impossible around him, and Tobio needed a moment to recover once he was lying there looking up at Hinata’s flushed face, his chest, his mussed hair.

 _God_. This wasn’t meant to be something that happened to him, but he’d take it.

“You suck,” Hinata said, beginning to move slightly.

An immediate _no you suck_ bubbled in Tobio’s throat, but right now it was so unmeant he couldn’t say it. Instead he grunted a neutral, “If you want.”

Hinata’s hips jerked. He bit his lip for a second, then glared down—though his eyes were glazed. “You really, really suck.”

“Yeah?” He didn’t mean for it to sound challenging—it just came out that way. He thought of the porn he’d seen, the awkward repetitions of _you like that?_ as someone pounded into their partner. He hoped he didn’t sound like that, but it was possible. He _did_ feel smug about being here, now. How good Hinata felt, and getting to feel it.

How good Hinata _looked_ , too. Most of his body was on display like this, and there was nothing to do but look at it and enjoy. A hunger no sex would satisfy coursed through Tobio—a habitual need it would probably take years to work through.

He looked forward to working through it.

“Yeah,” Hinata said, sounding resolute—but his face contorted when Tobio reached between them and touched him. His entire body jerked. How had he managed to keep from touching himself when he was this sensitive? His shuddering as Tobio took him in hand was almost enough to end things quickly, at least where Tobio was concerned; Tobio clenched his teeth, tried to ignore the spike of sensation.

He tempted fate by thrusting up, hand tightening, and Hinata shuddered more. A movement more—Hinata pushed down to meet him—and then Hinata was riding him frantically, fast and hard, choked noises escaping him. Tobio couldn’t help joining in, foot pressed into the mattress to drive up harder, the fall a breath away.

Warm wetness on his stomach released him. _Cum_. It was cum. He hadn’t sucked. He was allowed to come now, and he pushed up into Hinata’s pulsing release. Hinata’s body took him in, pressed in against him, and the fall followed. Tobio thrust up, and up, and up, raising Hinata on top of him, and Hinata fell forward, gasping, as Tobio filled him over and over. Tobio gripped his hip hard as his release hit, as if he was afraid Hinata would pull off—as if he needed to fight to keep him there. There was a sense of disbelief that this could be happening, that he could be spilling inside Hinata, but—well, it was happening. No dream had ever been this vivid.

Hinata bent over him, face ducked away, breathing harsh. Their movements slowed, and slowed, and slowed, and stopped. Tobio stopped clutching at Hinata’s hip quite so hard, stopped softly caressing Hinata’s cock.

“I’m dead,” Hinata said. From the exhausted quality of his voice, it might be true. His face was hidden beside Tobio’s chin.

Tobio reached up to set his hand against the back of Hinata’s head. Even the close-cropped section of his hair was soft against his palm; Tobio pressed Hinata’s face into his shoulder, feeling Hinata exhale against his skin.

They were still connected. Tobio didn’t want to lose the connection, and he looped an arm around Hinata’s back in addition to the hand at the back of Hinata’s head. Had it hurt for Hinata at all? It hadn’t looked like it did. Was he meant to ask?

Hinata turned his head to kiss the side of Tobio’s neck. He nipped at the skin, then nuzzled it. Shivers trekked across Tobio’s back and shoulders, hairs on his arms rising.

“It tickles,” he said.

“Mmm.” Hinata was still nuzzling. It embarrassed Tobio, somehow, but he didn’t want it to stop. It was the same as last night: every orgasm just made him want to cling tighter, made him more determined not to let go. At what point was his claim on Hinata real? When did they belong together?

Hinata’s breathing kept making his hairs rise, and he rolled them to get back on top. It helped him feel more in control, and this way he could draw back and look at Hinata. He’d expected a sleepy, not-really-there Hinata—but their eyes met, and Hinata looked just as alert as he felt.

“Hey,” Hinata said. He looked expectant, somehow. How did he always look expectant?

“Hey,” Tobio said back.

“I can’t believe we skipped practice.” Hinata’s face broke into a grin, but he didn’t break eye contact. “That _you_ had us skip practice.”

Was Tobio meant to feel guilty? He didn’t. “Yeah.”

Hinata laughed. “You could at least feel bad!”

“Do you?”

“No.”

Tobio watched his still-smiling face. “Why not, then?”

Hinata sobered, watching him back. “It’s just once.”

Tobio nodded. That was exactly how he felt. Just once, so they could get just a little more used to this. He didn’t want this day to be a sleep-deprived haze of wanting Hinata from across a room; he’d had enough of that.

The most he’d put up with today was after-class practice—later. Much later. And for once, he wouldn’t be aching to get there.

 

* * *

  


Tobio was sure he was imagining the electric charge in the dressing room when he and Hinata arrived there in the evening. It wasn’t a _real_ charge. It was just stepping onto hallowed ground again after shedding his skin; he was a new person now, a person who wasn’t hopelessly longing for another person. He _liked_ being this person, with scratches and kiss marks under his clothes.

Nishinoya, already present in the dressing room, whacked him on the arm. “How dare you _both_ leave me hanging! They called me the Karasuno loner this morning! All ganged up on me! I had to fight ‘em off.”

“That’s because you always get us to gang up on other people with you,” Hinata said, walking past them. He let his bag fall on the bench. “It was justice.”

He had to be out of it; normally he didn’t challenge Nishinoya, and Nishinoya rounded on him in shock.

“What!”

“Uh!” Hinata said, waking up. “You’re the best, Noya-senpai! It’ll never happen again.”

Nishinoya stared, clearly confused. He watched Hinata narrow-eyed.

“Why _did_ you miss out?” asked a teammate. For a strange moment Tobio imagined answering honestly—then shrugged.

“Food poisoning,” he said.

“Really!” said the teammate.

“You _do_ look flushed,” said another.

Hinata met Tobio’s eyes across the room and snickered. “Yeah. It was a light dose of food poisoning though. I think it was, hm, a bad potato, or something.”

Amusement bubbled in Tobio’s stomach, but he didn’t respond. The conversation moved on after a discussion of what food item caused the poisoning, and whether it could happen from potatoes, and while it coursed overhead Tobio shed winter layers until he was in volleyball shorts and a T-shirt, grateful he’d been able to wear them under his clothes. He wasn’t ready for people to remark on the marks on his body—or on the ones on Hinata’s, for that matter. When he glanced over, Hinata’s side was to him, bending to put on a knee pad, and there was no sign of the change in him, no mark to give him away.

Tobio knew the marks were there, though, under the neckline of that prim white T-shirt.

He rubbed his mouth to hide a triumphant grin. Hinata would definitely call him a pervert if he caught him looking at him like this. Tobio managed to wipe all traces away, and finished up without incident.

“Ready yet?” Hinata asked, straightening and meeting Tobio’s gaze. Tobio nodded mutely. For just a second after this, Hinata’s glance dropped to take in Tobio’s shoulders, chest, hips, hands—and Tobio watched him bite back a secret grin.

Tobio’s stomach flipped over.

“Let’s go,” Hinata said, cheerful. “Karasuno ascending!”

Tobio followed him out the door and into the gym, stomach still acting up. He let out a big breath and rubbed sweating palms on his shorts, though the gym was—as usual—icy cold in winter.

He had a good feeling about his chances today, if it came to practice matches. He glanced at Hinata being harangued by a still-scolding Nishinoya and readjusted his expectations. He’d probably do well—as long as he kept his head in the game.

He set the odds at fifty-fifty, depending on how much Hinata jumped around in front of him. He watched Hinata’s T-shirt pull up as he gestured, baring a strip of skin.

Okay—maybe forty-sixty, not in his favour. Nishinoya bent over and rammed a shoulder into Hinata’s stomach, started to tickle him mercilessly. Hinata’s laughter rang out loud as he attempted to flinch away, hands up to defend himself.

Thirty-seventy, then. Hopefully. Tobio left it at that and headed for the equipment room to grab the net. He’d faced worse odds, he thought.


End file.
